THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/byoaktliornrecordOObrowiala 


^oofes  bp  aiicc  ^rotoiu 


BY    OAK    AND    THORN  :     A  Record    of 
Snglish  Days.     i6mo,  I1.25. 

THE    DAY   OF    HIS    YOUTH.     A   Novel. 
i6mo,  f  i.oo. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 
Boston  and  New  York. 


/p  Z^SB^^y 


BY   OAK  AND  THORN 


0  HecorD  of  (l];ngU0li  Da^sf 


ALICE  BROWN 


y-  }i>'-i9 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

^te  iiiitetjntie  ^ttii,  €ambx\\i%t 

1897 


Copyright,  18(36, 
By  ALICE  BROWN. 

Ali  rigJUs  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.A, 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houston  &  Co- 


TO 

MY  GOOD  COMRADES 

WHO 
SHARED  THE   FOOTPATH  WAY 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

In  Praise  of  Gypsying i 

The  Food  of  FAncy lo 

A  Still  Hunt 23 

The  Pilgrim  in  Devon 29 

The  Haunt  of  the  Doones       ....      72 

The  Land  of  Arthur loi 

The  Bronte  Country 132 

The  Quest  of  a  Cup 144 

An  Unresisted  Temptation         •       .        .       .  173 

Latter-day  Cranford 187 

Under  the  Great  Blue  Tent     .       .       .       .21; 


"  Then  follow  you,  wherever  hie 
The  traveling  mountains  of  the  sky. 
Or  let  the  streams  in  civil  mode 
Direct  your  choice  upon  a  road; 

"  For  one  and  all,  or  high  or  low, 
Will  lead  you  where  you  wish  to  go : 
And  one  and  all  go  night  and  day 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away  .' " 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 


IN   PRAISE  OF  GYPSYING 

And  now,  with  the  youth  of  the  year, 
hath  come  a  strange  longing  upon  the 
hearts  and  within  the  veins  of  all  crea- 
tures living,  and  one  born  to  a  climate  of 
unchanging  peace  would  scarcely  know 
what  it  might  portend.  For  there  works 
a  sweet  languor  and  at  the  same  time  a 
quickening  within  the  blood ;  the  spirit 
is  given  over  to  melancholy,  and  alter- 
nately to  joyance,  and  the  lips  fit  them- 
selves easily  to  snatches  of  old  song. 
Conscience  is  dead  within  us,  or,  if  it 
speak,  it  is  to  fret  us,  though  listlessly, 
that  we  stay  indoors  while  the  apple 
is  forming  within  the  green  of  the 
bud,  and  while  columbines  nod  bravely, 
and  over-sea  the  may  is  whitening  well 
her  fairy  smock,  spread  lavishly  upon 
green  hedges.  "  What  avails  it,"  we  cry, 
"  that  we  labored  all  winter  within  the 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

prisoning  of  four  dull  walls  ?  Our  books 
are  written,  our  canvas  lies  wet,  our 
songs  are  sung ;  yet  what  living  soul  is 
the  better  for  our  travail  ?  Children  are 
we  that  play  at  shaping  a  creation  of  our 
own,  while  without  us  the  ever-mutable 
yet  ever-living  makes  unto  itself  red 
sunsets,  and  with  one  spring-attired  birch- 
tree  set  against  a  background  of  pine 
puts  to  shame  all  the  conceptions  of 
art,"  And  therefore,  sick  with  the  van- 
ity of  our  seriousness,  do  we  turn  the 
hearing  inward  and  listen  to  the  throb- 
bing of  swift-pulsing  currents  ;  and  their 
measure  is  that  of  a  jocund  march  draw- 
ing us  ever  onward.  Where,  we  know 
not,  and  if  we  have  but  one  drop  of 
blessed  gypsy  blood,  that,  like  moving 
quicksilver,  doth  inform  the  whole,  we 
care  not ;  for,  as  one  great  among  wizards 
truly  declares,  "  to  travel  hopefully  is  a 
better  thing  than  to  arrive."  (They  that 
know  not  spring  may  finish  the  line,  to 
the  effect  that  "the  true  success  is  to 
labor,"  but  we  who  be  gypsies  will  toss 
this  tiresome  tag  into  the  next  thicket. 
It  smacks  of  the  school-room,  and  all 
moralizing  have  we  forsworn.)  And 
ever  at  this  season,  when  one  has  tuned 

2 


IN   PRAISE  OF  GYPSYING 

his  ear  to  listen,  the  voice  of  bird  and 
tree  is,  "Come!"  and  the  saiHng  clouds 
cry,  "  Follow  ! "  Memories  don  brave 
attire,  masquerading  as  hopes,  and  step 
gayly  forward  to  the  tune  of  "  Summer 
is  icumen  in."  Let  Emerson  assure  us 
that  he  who  stays  at. home  hath  as  great 
a  share  of  the  universe  as  he  that  travels 
abroad,  and  let  Whittier  equalize  the 
wanderer's  lot  with  that  of  him 

"  who  from  his  doorway  sees 
The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees,"  — 

their  words  are  empty  air ;  we  give 
courteous  acquiescence,  yet  from  the 
moment  when  the  tassel  droops  first  on 
th'e  alder  to  that  when  the  last  crimsoned 
maple  leaf  flutters  down  the  wind.  Na- 
ture herself  —  contained  within  the  fra- 
gile vial  of  man's  being  —  contradicts  it. 
"  Come  !  "  she  cries  to  us,  as  to  the  young 
birds  on  the  rim  of  the  nest,  "  Come  — 
and  follow ! "  What  loving  sympathy 
have  we  now  for  that  happy  band  who, 
in  one  guise  or  another,  but  never  that 
3f  conformity  to  the  world  -  discerning 
eye,  **  house  by  the  hedge,"  and  make 
their  rallying  note, 

"  To  the  wood  thfen,  to  the  wild :  free  life,  full  lib- 
erty ! " 

3 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

Among  us  who  can  seize  upon  such  her- 
itage of  delight,  books  shall  be  forsworn  ; 
but  if,  in  some  moment  of  weakness,  we 
long  for  the  old  vice  of  print,  let  it  be 
that  excellent  work,  the  life  of  Bamp- 
fylde-Moore  Carew,  commonly  called  the 
King  of  the  Beggars.  Born  respectably, 
the  son  of  a  rector  (alas !  good  youth,  he 
would  fain  have  had  it  otherwise),  he 
followed  his  star  to  the  greenwood,  and 
there  out-gypsied  the  gypsies.  A  love 
and  longing  not  to  be  withstood  marched 
ever  before  him,  and  like  joyous  pioneers 
cleft  the  way  to  his  desires.  He  joined 
the  gypsies  ;  he  received  the  crown  of 
virtuous  ambition,  and  became  their 
king.  Lustily  rang  the  inauguration  ode 
at  his  crowning,  whereof  one  line  con- 
taineth  the  whole  philosophy  of  summer  : 

"  This  is  Maunders'  holiday ! " 

Maunders  (beggars),  their  holiday  is 
eternal  while  the  sun  shines  and  the 
grass  grows,  and  we,  if  we  be  worthy, 
may  pick  up  the  crumbs  of  their  festival. 
Glorious  and  historic  precedent  have  we 
for  our  vagrom  desires.  When  JEneas 
became  aweary  of  philandering,  or  was 
suddenly  alive  to  the  divine  message 
4 


IN   PRAISE   OF   GYPSYING 

(and  who  can  tell,  in  the  case  of  any 
mortal  man,  whether  he  be  moved  by 
gods  or  ennui?),  when  this  same  paste- 
board hero  was  minded  to  leave  the 
pedestal  whereon  poor  Dido  had  set  him, 
what  did  he  do  ?  Marry,  he  kicked  down 
the  altar,  smoking  with  the  sacrifice  of 
her  queenly  devotion,  scattered  the  ashes 
of  her  hopes,  and  set  sail  I  Potent 
phrase  !  The  mariners  pulled  with  lusty 
will,  the  sea  sparkled,  a  jolly  breeze 
sprang  after,  and  .^neas  was  safe  on 
waves  no  Salter  than  Dido's  tears,  yet 
under  a  sun  more  beguiling  than  her 
smiles.  Stay  -  at  -  homes  were  ever  de- 
puted to  do  the  weeping ;  be  warned, 
dear  pilgrim,  and  buckle  on  your  shoon  ! 
Ulysses  of  wily  memory  —  was  he  ani- 
mated solely  by  a  virtuous  desire  for 
home-made  cakes  and  ale,  in  quitting 
Circe  and  Calypso,  and  their  bribes  of 
gilded  ease  ?  Rather  had  he  tired  of 
island  life ;  he  was  ready  to  be  up  and 
away.  Theseus,  deserter  of  Ariadne 
and  the  Isle  of  Naxos  !  it  was  never  in 
obedience  to  the  gods,  say  I,  that  he 
showed  so  clean  a  pair  of  heels.  Mi- 
nerva appeared  to  him,  reads  the  tale. 
Possibly,  yet  only  after  he  had  been 
5 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

moved  by  dreams  of  a  swifter  flight,  a 
more  adventurous  way  than  that  of  him 
who  has  newly  enslaved  himself  to  love. 
"  Bind  me  with  no  fetters,  not  even  in 
the  prisoning  of  rosy  arms  ! "  sang  his 
Viking  soul.  Jason  was  a  shrewd  mer- 
chant, a  hardy  adventurer,  yet  sought  he 
chiefly  the  Golden  Fleece,  or  to  cool  the 
fever  of  his  youth  ? 

Strange  suspicions  awaken  in  us  when 
the  distance  wooes,  and  spring  airs  blow 
soft ;  doubts,  all  unwonted,  of  the  true 
values  of  ancient  tales.  At  such  mo- 
ments even  the  Crusader  seems  not  so 
much  enkindled  with  the  passion  for 
rescuing  earth's  holy  spot,  as  a  wanderer 
moved  by  vague  desire  of  foreign  lands 
and  sweetly  new  experience  ;  one  who, 
though  spendthrift  of  time  and  strength, 
would  yet  store  up,  for  his  gray  and 
broken  age,  a  casket  of  golden  memories. 
He  was  the  bird  of  passage  of  a  prayer- 
ful time ;  his  scallop  shell,  his  staff  and 
sandals,  were  symbols  not  only  of  a 
yearning  faith  and  abiding  constancy, 
but  of  a  natural  delight  such  as  those 
hemmed  in  by  "  four  gray  walls "  can 
never  know.  To  run  the  finger  further 
down  the  margin  of  the  past  is  to  find  — 
6 


IN  PRAISE  OF  GYPSYING 

what  burning  names,  what  wild  adven- 
ture !  Elizabeth  queened  it  in  England 
when  she  would  fain  have  taken  sword 
in  hand,  and  sailed  the  sea  with  the  best 
of  her  merry  men,  killing  the  Spaniard, 
and  drinking  deep  of  the  desire  of  life. 
They  fought  for  crown  and  faith  (and 
booty,  —  let  not  that  be  forgot ! ) ;  but 
though  the  peace  of  Christendom  was 
the  laurel  leaf  for  which  they  held  life 
but  as  "  a  pin's  fee,"  not  the  less  did 
they  pursue  continual  change  for  pure 
love  and  for  the  quieting  of  their  per- 
turbed spirits.  This  was  the  Watiderjahr 
of  their  time,  counterpart  of  the  Age  of 
Chivalry ;  they  who  would  truly  live, 
lived  on  the  wing,  and  Fortune  was  with 
them,  and  their  own  stout  hearts  their 
best  companioning. 

And  for  us  ?  There  are  no  sacred 
tombs  to  deliver,  no  Hesperides  in  im- 
agined view,  and  perhaps  not  even  one 
soul  to  be  rescued  and  deserted  in  the 
light-hearted  fashion  of  our  mythic  for- 
bears ;  but  not  for  that  will  we  fold  our 
hands  at  home,  and  live  the  life  of  nider- 
ings  and  them  that  be  easily  content. 
This  moment  of  the  opening  bud  is  that 
for  which  we  have  endured  our  months 


BY  OAK  AND   THORN 

of  servitude.  The  chrysalis  hath  ful- 
filled its  destined  use,  and  now  the  crea- 
ture hath  his  wings  to  fly  away,  and  soar 
or  flutter  as  his  nature  bids.  We  will  go 
forth,  not  perchance  like  a  wiser  race, 
to  hang  odes  on  the  blossoming  cherry, 
but  to  seek  that  beauty  which  the  hand 
of  man  hath  not  made,  and  the  secret 
of  which  no  cunning  can  divine.  To  lie 
beneath  the  open  sky,  to  mark  the 
rhythm  of  murmuring  treetops,  and  face 
the  wild  rose  unshamed,  in  that  our  lives 
have  grown  serene  and  natural  as  hers, 
—  that  shall  be  our  desire  and  our  de- 
light. If  we  may  sail  the  seas  that  have 
cradled  heroes,  and  walk  the  shores  of 
golden  memories,  we  are  blest  indeed ; 
but  whatever  be  our  station,  let  us  go 
out,  whether  to  sit  among  the  limes  and 
yews  of  Stratford  churchyard,  or  in  a 
New  England  pasture,  tippling  on  fra- 
grance and  lulled  by  the  foolish  bees. 
Somewhere,  somehow,  we  will  wander, 
look  and  listen,  and  ringing  in  our  ears 
shall  be  one  or  another  majestic  chant, 
like  the  solemn  prophecy  of  a  greater 
hope  and  a  more  splendid  journey  :  — 

"  My  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
8 


IN   PRAISE  OF  GYPSYING 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down : 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew." 

9 


THE  FOOD  OF  FANCY 

Few  are  the  pens  of  perfect  technique, 
and  only  such  may  fitly  couple  the  ethe- 
real with  the  grossly  utilitaria».  So  by 
a  good-fortune  not  always  regnant,  even 
in  the  happy  world  of  verse,  it  fell  to 
Aldrich  to  link  the  praise  of  "dreamy 
words"  and  "very  pleasant  eating."  His 
was  the  good  word,  for  he  was  born  to 
see  and  sing ;  but  ours  shall  be  the  joy- 
ous deed,  especially  when  we  have  set 
forth  on  pilgrimage  to  inherit  the  earth. 
On  such  days,  far  from  the  mahogany- 
tree  we  left  behind  us,  every  homely  act 
gains  a  new  significance  ;  and  unfamiliar 
food  fits  itself,  not  only  to  the  nourish- 
ment of  corporeal  particles,  but  to  that 
spiritual  life  wherewith  we  draw  our  only 
vital  breath.  So  that  it  becomes  the  wise 
to  refrain  from  considering  eating  as  an 
exact  science,  —  so  much  nitrogen,  so 
many  units  of  energy,  —  and  to  merge  it 
into  a  contemplative  and  poetic  delight, 
unknown  to  him  who  only  eats  to  live. 
On  such  a  topic  it  is  impossible  to  speak 

lO 


THE  FOOD   OF  FANCY 

impersonally,  or  to  shield  one's  self  be- 
hind the  egotistical  bulwark  of  the  edi- 
torial we.  It  is  necessary  to  betake  us 
individually  to  the  small  go-cart  of  the 
first  person  ;  for  who  ever  ate  altruis- 
tically, or  chewed  the  cud  of  a  foreign 
flavor,  save  to  his  own  self-limited  de- 
light ?  To  speak  straitly,  then,  as  a  unit 
whose  yea  would  fain,  in  this  matter,  be 
simply  yea,  I  frankly  avow  that  my  shal- 
lop of  joy  in  English  travel  was  upborne 
upon  an  ever  -  buoyant  wave  of  table- 
delight.  The  earliest  May-blossom,  the 
first  English  daisy,  quivered  in  white 
before  my  seeking  eyes,  wraith-pictures 
from  the  land  of  dreams ;  the  first  Eng- 
lish gooseberry  tart  stood  forth  a  more 
substantial  but  no  less  joyous  herald  of 
welcome  to  a  soil  whose  heroes  have  ever 
held  tankard  and  trencher  in  honorable 
repute.  What  fruit  this  side  the  land 
of  pure  delight  can  rival  the  English 
strawberry  ?  the  only  sort  of  immortal 
joy  you  can  buy  by  the  pound.  And 
though,  alas !  no  purveyor  shall  hence- 
forth bring  us  tribute  from  the  garden 
of  "  my  lord  of  Ely,"  so  also  nothing 
short  of  an  irresponsive  palate  can  de- 
prive us  of  that  flavor  underlying  the  rosy 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

flesh  even  in  the  days  of  Tyrant  Rich- 
ard. I  ate  my  first  strawberry  from  a 
little  basket  (you  know  the  shape,  dear 
pilgrim  !)  in  a  field  bordering  the  Nun's 
Walk,  on  the  banks  of  Itchen.  And  so 
corpulent  was  the  fruit,  so  grown  beyond 
all  reason,  though  lacking  nothing  of 
tenderness  and  fragrance,  that  we  meas- 
ured its  bulk  with  a  wisp  of  grass,  and 
sent  the  boastful  girth  home  to  one  who 
would  have  been  with  us,  had  the  gods 
dealt  tenderly.  In  Devon,  more  straw- 
berries, some  eaten  in  an  exquisite  dairy- 
shop  off  the  cathedral  close,  at  Exeter, 
their  nectarous  juices  enriched  and  soft- 
ened with  clotted  cream,  and  set  off  by 
cloying  junket,  as  a  country  lass  by  her 
hot-house  sister.  It  was  at  Ilfracombe, 
later  in  this  progress  of  delight,  that  a 
matron,  pink  of  cheek  and  gown,  gave 
us  the  recipe  for  the  clotted  cream,  most 
delectable  product  of  the  red-soiled  south. 
But  you  cannot  "bring  home  the  river 
and  sky."  You  shall  have  Devon  cattle, 
and  learn  the  tricks  of  the  dairy  from  a 
thousand  years'  inheritance,  else  your 
cream  will  turn  out  a  plain  and  whole- 
some compound  of  the  taste  of  scalded 
milk :   and  no  charm,  even  the  specific 


THE  FOOD   OF  FANCY 

furnished  the  guileless  Annie  by  Coun- 
sellor Doone,  shall  avail  you. 

It  was  in  a  little  Warwick  shop  that  I 
was  first  made  one  with  weal  and  'am 
pie,  that  concoction  so  cunningly  tra- 
duced by  Sam  Weller  that  no  one  may 
eat  it,  from  his  time  forth,  without  a 
premonitory  shudder. 

" '  Weal  pie,'  "  said  Mr.  Weller,  solilo- 
quizing, as  he  arranged  the  eatables  on 
the  grass.  " '  Wery  good  thing  is  a  weal 
pie,  when  you  know  the  lady  as  made  it, 
and  is  quite  sure  it  ain't  kittens.'  " 

But  the  verdict  of  the  American  palate 
was  altogether  favorable.  "Much  like 
the  British  character,"  says  retrospect. 
"  Solid  and  satisfying,  and  *  pleasant,  too, 
to  think  on  ! '  " 

At  Dulverton,  immortal  halting-place 
of  John  Ridd  as  he  rode  home  from 
school  across  the  moors,  on  the  occasion 
of  his  standing  up  like  a  pixy  in  the  dark, 
and  shouting  prophetic  defiance  to  the 
returning  Doones,  a  culinary  disappoint- 
ment lay  coldly  in  wait.  We  would  fain 
have  duplicated  John  Fry's  order,  — 
"'Hot  mootton  pasty, zame  as  I  hardered 
last  Tuesday ; ' "  but  there  was  no  time 
for  the  cooking,  and  we  went  away  with 
13 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

the  sacred  rite  undone.  Moreover,  not  in 
all  Devon  did  mention  of  pickled  loaches, 
the  love  whereof  first  led  little  John  into 
the  Doone  Valley,  do  more  than  rouse  a 
wondering  look  on  the  face  of  the  myth- 
ignoring  inhabitants.  But,  we  might 
have  asked,  to  what  end  should  Devon 
kitchens  exist,  save  for  the  perpetuating 
of  sacred  lore  and  setting  before  the  rev- 
erent palate  hot  collops  of  venison,  such 
as  were  approved  by  its  tutelary  giant, 
and  all  else  that  went  to  the  nourishing 
of  his  mightiness  ?  Shame  on  him  who 
would  remove  one  guidepost  of  the  culi- 
nary past,  one  viand  embalmed  in  story ! 
Let  his  name  be  anathema,  though  he 
invent  a  thousand  modern  trifles,  or  a 
sauce  to  outrival  Worcestershire.  For 
no  tickling  of  the  palate  under  new  com- 
binations can  compensate  for  the  starving 
of  the  soul. 

You  who  have  trodden  English  by- 
paths and  fallen  in  with  ancient  ways, 
did  you  ever  eat  English  buns  without 
a  jingling  mental  accompaniment  to  the 
tune  of  the  old  nursery  rhyme  ?  And 
though  you  consumed  them  luxuriously 
in  the  London  ABC  shops,  or  made 
your  touring  staff  that  other  variety  to 
14 


THE   FOOD   OF   FANCY 

be  found,  yellow  with  saffron,  beside  the 
Cornish  sea,  were  they  not  soul-satisfy- 
ing and  plummy  ?  I  charge  you,  O  seek- 
ers of  inward  joy,  by  all  the  past  eating 
you  have  ever  done,  to  your  own  enlarge- 
ment of  vision,  that,  when  you  come 
upon  a  classic  dish,  you  pass  it  not  by. 
And  north  and  south  the  traditionary 
riches  of  the  kitchen  shall  be  yours.  For 
in  Derbyshire,  you  shall  eat  Bakewell 
pudding,  of  the  genus  tart,  having,  as 
one  greater  than  the  world  of  realists 
hath  said,  "a.  sort  of  mixed  flavor  of 
cherry-tart,  custard,  pineapple,  roast  tur- 
key, toffy,  and  hot  buttered  toast."  At 
Banbury,  or  possibly  farther  afield  among 
the  Shakespeare  haunts,  you  may  pur- 
chase the  unholy  Banbury  cake,  which  is 
no  less  than  a  superlatively  rich  mince 
turnover,  evidently  without  the  meat, 
but  compensating  for  all  conventional 
lack  by  fruits  and  spices.  Without 
doubt  it  will  trouble  your  dreams,  for 
no  Banbury  cake  ever  did  its  spiriting 
gently ;  but  in  the  end,  when  absence 
shall  have  softened  every  harsh  detail 
of  that  English  journey,  it  will  linger,  a 
spicy  savor,  in  your  happy  memory.  You 
shall  eat  haggis  and  scones  in  Scotland, 
15 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

roast  goose  and  apple-sauce  wherever 
you  can  get  them,  star-gazing  pie  in 
Cornwall  (filled  with  pilchards,  their  in- 
nocent heads  protruding  above  the  crust), 
and  go,  like  all  your  generation  and  the 
fathers  of  the  English-speaking  race,  to 
Richmond,  to  dine  at  the  Star  and  Garter, 
upon  whitebait  and  Richmond  maids-of- 
honor.  You  shall  eat  chad  from  Lake 
Windermere,  in  memory  of  the  Roman 
legions  who  carried  that  royal  family 
thither ;  and  everywhere  shall  you  bow 
down  before  old  England's  roast  beef, 
though  she  import  it  from  Australia  or 
America,  and  so  hold  historic  lien  upon 
it  by  courtesy  only.  Her  chops,  of  a 
thickness  and  succulence  unknown  in 
the  golden  West,  shall  tell  their  own 
story  of  growth  in  fields  fat  with  yellow 
mustard  blooms,  where  the  innocent 
sheep  hourly  nibble  and  munch,  uncon- 
scious that  such  sunny  joy  is  decreed 
but  for  the  flavoring  of  tissue.  All  this 
may  you  have  for  the  paltry  exchange  of 
shillings ;  but,  as  for  the  salmi  put  to- 
gether by  the  weaving  fingers  of  Becky 
Sharp  for  her  bamboozled  brother-in-law, 
even  the  prince  of  the  power  of  imagina- 
tion shall  fail  to  resuscitate  that.  Such 
i6 


THE  FOOD  OF  FANCY 

salmis  are  dead  and   gone  with  Becky 
and  the  snows  of  yester-year. 

No  bread  and  beer  in  England  mingle 
such  savor  of  lovely  past  and  present  as 
the  bit  and  sup  making  up  the  dole  of 
Saint  Cross  Hospital,  and  served  to  any 
wayfarer  at  the  open  hatch.  There,  in 
tantalizing  nearness  to  the  custodian's 
blue  china  within  the  lodge  (china  which 
is  not  for  you !)  and  neighbored  by  the 
green  quadrangle  where  the  gowned 
brethren  go  pottering  about  in  serene 
relinquishment  of  care,  you  linger  at 
will  (so  you  come  but  once  a  day !)  sip- 
ping your  horn  cup  as  it  were  elixir. 
This  is  no  bread  and  beer  alone,  but  a 
heartening  food,  a  magic  draught,  holding 
all  the  flavor  of  that  idyllic  walk,  when, 
awed  with  peace  and  "  soft  as  bees  by 
Catherine  Hill,"  you  cross  the  meadow 
from  Winchester  by  ways  parcel  -  gilt 
with  golden  mimulus,  where  the  river 
dreams  of  gentle  things  and  the  breath 
of  cattle  scents  the  air.  For  me,  too, 
it  keeps  the  memory  of  that  day  when 
I  first  bent  over  the  opulent,  homely 
flower-beds,  and  asked  the  brother  whose 
art  was  gardening  what  name  he  gave 
the  ladies' -delights  cosily  settled  there. 
17 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

"  Lublidles,"  he  returned,  in  some  cour- 
teous interest  that  one  could  call  them 
otherwise. 

Shakespeare's  love  -  in  -  idleness  !  In 
some  spots  —  be  thankful !  —  the  world 
does  not  move. 

What  memories  are  ours  of  the  first 
crab  essayed  at  Seaton,  where  we  at- 
tacked him  gingerly,  not  knowing  his 
kind,  and  mentally  repelling  the  simile 
of  ossified  spiders  !  The  waiter  stood  by, 
meantime,  fraternal  over  a  maiden  effort 
and  solicitous  for  the  fame  of  Devon. 
His  self -forgetful  joy  when  the  venture 
was  made  and  we  vowed  our  fealty  then 
and  there  to  the  worthy  crustacean  — 
that  was  something  to  see  !  What  shall 
despoil  us  of  the  day  when  we  halted 
before  a  mediaeval-seeming  shop  near  old 
Bristol's  Christmas  Steps,  and  read  the 
longing  on  the  faces  of  three  children 
standing  there  without,  staring  hard  at 
the  winkles,  cockles  and  mussels  in  the 
window } 

"Which  are  the  nicest.?"  asked  we 
with  the  humility  of  the  non-elect. 

"  Mussels,  miss  !  "  rang  the  concerted 
shout,  whereupon  tuppence  each  turned 
the  loiterers  into  mussel-eating  monarchs. 
i8 


THE   FOOD   OF  FANCY 

Two  of  US  will  never  set  eyes  on  the 
London  barrows  loaded  with  like  marine 
delicacies  without  choking  reminiscence 
of  a  certain  expedition  planned,  gloated 
over  in  the  night-watches  and  never  ac- 
complished. For  we  had  invited  a  lady 
of  social  high  degree,  who  knows  only 
poetic  and  fashionable  London,  and  for 
whom  the  City  is  a  myth,  to  vouchsafe 
us  one  day  wherein  to  show  her  the 
World  and  the  joys  thereof.  She  should 
ride  on  the  tops  of  'buses,  she  should  be 
presented  to  the  Duke  of  Suffolk's  head, 
resident  in  the  Minories,  salute  Gog  and 
Magog,  and  pause  before  the  tree  "  at  the 
corner  of  Wood  Street."  But  alas !  in 
a  moment  of  ill-judged  prophecy  we  re- 
ferred to  the  mussels  of  Shoreditch  to 
be  purchased  from  a  barrow  and  dipped 
in  the  public  vinegar  ;  and  being  daintily 
nurtured,  thenceforth  she  would  none  of 
our  unholy  pranks. 

Milk  is  no  uncommon  beverage,  yet 
sometimes  it  has  a  taste  of  all  Arcadia. 
One  June  day  when  we  were  on  the 
march  brought  us  to  the  Welsh  paradise 
of  Montgomery,  where  Magdalen  Her- 
bert's castle  heights  are  standing,  crown- 
less,  wonderful.  We  were  entering  the 
19 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

village  foot-sore  but  never  weary  (and 
with  no  time  for  food,  for  there  were 
many  miles  to  tramp,  that  night,  before 
we  got  home  to  our  den,  O)  and  there, 
providentially  meeting  us,  came  a  clean 
woman  driving  a  clean  cow  into  a  tidy 
yard.  Never  was  bargain  more  swiftly 
sealed.  She  disappeared  to  bring  two 
bright  glasses  and  a  quart  measure. 
She  milked  and  we,  throned  on  a  strip 
of  turf,  drank,  while  round  about  us 
thronged  the  village  children,  solemnly 
classifying  two  gaitered,  short-skirted 
and  apparently  hollow  monsters.  That 
was  milk  such  as  they  drink  on  Olympus 
when  Hebe  serves,  though  possibly  only 
a  cut  above  the  draughts  permanently  on 
tap,  for  a  penny  or  for  love,  at  farm-house 
doors. 

We  are  wise,  we  who  go  gypsying. 
We  have  known  what  it  is  to  find  mush- 
rooms on  the  Stratford  Road  and  to  smell 
them,  one  strange  Dorset  day,  through  a 
choking  mist  through  which  the  trees 
seemed  walking  toward  us  as  we  went. 
How  good  must  elf-men  be,  we  said,  to 
set  a  banquet  there  for  such  as  are  born 
with  eyes  and  nose !  We  have  learned 
the  soul-satisfying  quality  of  raw  turnips, 

20 


THE  FOOD  OF  FANCY 

for  we  fed  thereon,  one  hungry,  happy 
afternoon  in  Kent.     We  have  lived. 

Certain  harmless  fictions  dominate  the 
English  mind  regarding  the  national 
"victuals."  Smile  over  them,  and  enjoy 
the  more.  You  may  long  for  apples,  and 
"  seek  all  day  ere  you  find  them ; "  for 
the  English  apple,  as  it  appears  in  the 
market,  is  prone  to  show  a  degree  of 
hardness  known  to  us  in  no  article  of 
food  save  sugar  gooseberries.  "  I  like  a 
good  tasty  apple  meself,"  said  an  English 
wench,  setting  white  teeth  into  a  knurly 
pippin  ;  "  something  to  bite  on  ! "  She 
had  it ;  a  baby  foreordained  to  gums 
might  have  cut  molars  upon  it.  You 
may  ask  plaintively  for  vegetables,  in 
ordering  your  dinner,  to  be  answered 
daily,  with  a  naive  air  of  delighted  dis- 
covery, "  Potatoes  !  "  And  should  you 
hint  at  a  larger  ambition,  a  nobler  quest, 
you  may  count  yourself  proud  and  happy 
if  the  omnipresent  pea  is  an  available 
candidate,  albeit  the  only  one.  There 
may  be  set  before  you  a  loathsome  and 
greasy  compound  with  the  encouraging 
dictum,  "This  is  an  American  dough- 
nut !  "  (An  historic  introduction  :  "  Pud- 
ding —  Alice  ;   Alice  —  pudding.      Re- 

21 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

move  the  pudding  !  ")  But  though,  for 
honor's  sake,  you  deny  the  fallacy,  you 
shall  eschew  its  ocular  proof.  Every- 
where seek  out  the  native  and  historic 
dish ;  and  some  happy  day,  if  Fortune 
fawn  upon  you,  roasted  crabs  may  hiss 
for  you  in  the  bowl,  and  you  shall  have 
saffron  in  the  warden  pies. 


A  STILL  HUNT 

We  would  hear  the  nightingale,  but, 
more  slenderly  equipped  than  John  Bur- 
roughs in  the  same  fine  quest,  we  had 
not  the  certainty  of  making  literary  capi- 
tal out  of  our  ill-success.  For  us  failure 
was  failure :  a  handful  of  the  summer's 
gold  irretrievably  wasted.  At  Warwick, 
sure  of  place  "and  time  agreeing,"  we 
made  careful  inquiry  where  the  bird  of 
wonder  might  be  sought.  According  to 
the  popular  voice,  the  woods  were  full  of 
nightingales ;  I  remember  writing  home, 
in  a  fit  of  emulous  extravagance,  that  the 
tongues  thereof  daily  served  the  castle 
lord  and  lordlings  for  breakfast.  "  Go 
down  on  the  bridge,  miss,  at  nine  o'clock," 
said  the  optimistic  landlady.  "  They  do 
sing  there  most  beautiful.  '  KnOw  one 
when  you  hear  him  ?  *  Yes,  indeed,  miss ! 
You  can't  mistake  a  nightingale ! "  Like 
all  who  love  their  gloriously  mediaeval 
and  frankly  dirty  Warwick  as  she  may 
be  loved,  we  were  accustomed  to  make 
a  worshipful  pilgrimage  down  past  the 
33 


BY   OAK  AND  THORN 

castle  at  twilight,  chiefly  to  steal  dreams 
from  one  pink  rose  hanging  high  on  the 
castle  wall ;  and  so  it  came  about  that 
our  observance  appropriately  ended  with 
the  bridge  and  the  greater  quest.  That 
rose  held  strange  emphasis  in  those  War- 
wick days ;  it  played  a  part  as  real  and 
wonderful  as  the  role  of  princess  in  tales 
of  fairydom.  Little  rosy  breaths  came 
from  her  petals,  grew  into  clouds  of  fan- 
tasy and  enveloped  us.  Our  minds  walked 
dimly  in  a  morning  haze.  We  imagined 
much  about  her,  as  one  may  about  a  rose. 
She  suggested  to  us  her  who  seemed  to 
us  then  the  Fairest  of  Women,  and  we 
made  our  lady  Countess  of  Warwick 
(Cophetua's  immortal  maid  !)  hung  there 
in  her  sweet  deserving  upon  the  antiquity 
of  the  house  like  that  rose  upon  the  stabile 
wall.  And  though  I  have  been  there 
since  and  the  dirty  white  peacock  flaunts 
himself  with  the  same  ill-judged  vanity, 
and  not  one  bourgeoning  spray  is  less  on 
the  ruined  bridge  without  the  gates, 
Warwick  Castle  is  never  the  same  to  me ; 
for  that  one  rose  is  gone,  and  no  sister 
flower  could  ever  take  her  place.  So  we 
dreamed  until  the  dusk  enfolded  us,  and 
then  went  happily  on  to  the  bridge,  stout- 
24 


A   STILL   HUNT 

hearted  in  desire  and  belief.  There  we 
paced  and  leaned  and  lingered,  dallying 
with  dampness  and  grave  in  discussion. 
The  question  was  of  mighty  import,  and 
always  the  same.  When  that  liquid  note 
was  once  entrapped,  should  we  too  find 
it  and  remember  '^tjugtjug?  We  were 
wise,  that  summer.  We  knew  how  vital 
it  was,  how  much  more  to  be  desired 
than  great  statecraft,  to  know  whether 
her  lamenting  did  so  run,  or  whether  it 
must  melt  into  some  strange  wild  note 
too  untamable  for  even  poets'  para- 
phrasing. We  need  not  have  striven. 
The  long  summer  twilights  passed :  the 
skies  paled,  and  faded  into  dusk.  De- 
feated seekers  of  a  wealth  more  to  be 
desired  than  El  Dorado,  there  was  no- 
thing for  us  but  to  creep  home,  chilled 
and  vanquished,  to  bed.  Then  it  was  that 
we  bethought  us  of  confiding  in  an  all- 
knowing  cab-driver,  and  his  hopefulness 
put  discouragement  to  shame.  "  Night- 
ingales, miss } "  quoth  he.  "  Yes,  miss,  I 
know  exactly  where  they  sing.  A  mile 
or  so  out  of  Warwick  is  a  lonely  bit  of 
road,  and  they  hold  regular  concerts  there. 
I  went  by  last  night,  and  they  were 
a-singing  away  like  everything.     I  could 

25 


BY  OAK   AND   THORN 

take  you  out,  miss,  for  'arf  a  crown  ! " 
Was  ever  tempting  bait  more  cunningly 
offered  ?  We  were  caught,  and  that 
night  at  ten  o'clock,  John,  with  a  friend 
on  the  box  (both  faithfully  dressed  to 
represent  Rogue  Riderhood  villains), 
drove  up  in  state.  I  have  not  yet  been 
able  to  decide  why  these  two  beguilers 
of  the  American  purse  came  thus  dis- 
guised. They  had  pulled  their  hats  low 
over  their  eyes,  they  had  tied  flaring 
handkerchiefs  about  their  necks,  and  had 
turned  up  their  collars  at  a  murderous 
angle.  They  may  have  had  some  exalted 
idea  of  a  practical  joke  ;  they  may  have 
been  afraid  of  the  damp.  We  rattled 
away,  and  John  asked  us  respectfully,  yet 
with  meaning,  if  there  were  not  frequent 
murders  in  America;  he  told  us  folk- 
tales of  horror,  and  then,  at  the  moment 
when  my  spinal  marrow  was  properly 
chilled,  drew  up  the  horse,  on  a  lonely 
bit  of  road,  and  announced,  sepulchrally, 
"  This  is  the  very  place ! "  I  had  nearly 
shrieked,  "O,  save  me,  Hubert,  save 
me !  "  but  I  remembered  the  nightingale, 
and  held  my  peace.  Whether  the  night- 
ingale was  also  mindful  of  us  I  know  not, 
but  he  was  silent,  too.  For  one  hour  we 
26 


A   STILL  HUNT 

sat  there,  and  then  drove  slowly  home- 
ward, cold  and  depressed,  our  base  guides 
assuring  each  other,  by  the  way,  that 
never,  in  all  their  lives,  had  they  heard 
of  such  a  circumstance;  still  did  they 
insist  that  nightingales  were  always  mak- 
ing musical  clamor  at  that  particular 
spot. 

With  saddened  hearts,  we  relinquished 
the  quest;  but  one  night,  at  Stratford, 
sitting  in  the  coffee-room  of  the  Red 
Horse  Inn,  we  mentioned  our  forlorn 
pursuit  before  two  young  English  boys. 
They  were  knightly  souls  and  ready. 
They  knew  well  where  Philomel  lamented 
on  the  Warwick  Road,  and  there  would 
they  lead  us,  if  we  chose  to  go.  Instantly 
we  were  afoot  with  them  in  the  moqnlit 
dusk,  where  the  hedgerows  smelled  of 
bloom,  talking  until  the  way  grew  lonely 
(and  so  provocative  of  hope),  and  learning 
something,  I  am  persuaded,  even  in  that 
short  space,  of  the  finely  tempered  fibre 
in  little  English  lads.  I  cannot  remem- 
ber what  they  said  ;  only  that  they  were 
very  frank  and  very  courteous  (grown-up 
and  bookish,  too,  as  compared  with  our 
American  children,  using  fine-spun  words 
and  phrasing  with  an  absolute  lack  of  pre- 
27 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

tense)  and  that  they  breathed  the  essence 
of  all  that  is  rarest  in  their  nationality. 
Had  it  been  this  year  of  grace,  1896,  I 
should  here  assert  that  they  had  neigh- 
bored and  played  with  the  boys  and  girls 
of  "  The  Golden  Age."  One  passport  to 
their  consideration  seemed  to  be  the  fact 
that,  as  Americans,  we  were  indubitably 
the  countrywomen  of  Mr.  William  Win- 
ter. They  had  rowed  with  him  on  the 
Avon  ;  he  had  evidently  passed  the  silent 
and  terrible  scrutiny  of  a  boy's  ideals 
and  been  approved. 

On  and  on  we  walked,  fields  on  either 
side,  and  sweetness  of  summer  all  about. 
We  talked  less  and  less ;  we  listened,  ex- 
pectant. A  lonely  corn-crake  cried  in 
the  distance,  —  sound  inharmonious,  yet 
fitted  to  the  darkness  and  the  hour.  And 
then  —  listen ! 

"How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding  throngh 
the  leaves  I 

Again  —  thou  hearest  ? 
Eternal  passion ! 
Eternal  pain ! " 

28 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

No  region  short  of  Arcadia  was  ever 
blest  with  historian  more  enthusiastic 
than  Charles  Kingsley  whenever  he 
touched  upon  Devonshire,  her  charms  or 
her  story ;  then  was  his  pen  dipped  in 
illuminating  colors,  and  he  traced  the 
outline  of  her  beauties  on  a  page  that 
must  endure  until  the  memory  of  Devon 
lads  no  longer  thrills  the  romance-loving 
heart.  When  guide-books  wax  eloquent 
over  this  fair  county,  and  dry  historic 
mention  broadens  into  a  sweep  of  verbal 
imagery,  then  are  the  paragraphs  hedged 
between  telltale  quotation  marks,  and 
a  footnote  points  to  Kingsley  as  the 
source  of  such  just  laudation.  His  sym- 
pathy was  perfect ;  the  light  of  his  genius 
seems  to  brighten  every  golden  thread  in 
the  fabric  of  her  story  ;  and  the  traveler 
who  loves  such  an  unfailing  lover  can 
scarcely  do  better  than  to  visit  these 
happy  haunts  with  "  Westward  Ho ! " 
and  the  "  Prose  Idylls  "  in  hand,  as  po- 
etic guidebooks.  Unlike  many  a  memo- 
29 


BY   OAK  AND  THORN 

rable  spot,  this  has  a  beauty  that  is  all 
its  own,  holding  a  peculiar  power  over 
the  human  spirit.  Not  only  do  the  pages 
of  its  history  rouse  the  heart  to  quicker 
pulsations  by  their  review  of  the  days 
when  there  were  giants,  but  even  the 
face  of  nature  seems  here  significant. 
Devonshire  may  be  "relaxing,"  as  the 
neighbors  of  Bow  Bells  declare,  with 
fine  and  almost  depreciatory  inflection, 
but  nevertheless  every  breath  within  its 
borders  inevitably  exhilarates  all  who 
love  a  hero.  The  English  Midlands 
spread  out  into  a  fair  garden,  beautified 
by  the  hand  of  man,  and  gaining  grace 
from  his  necessities.  Devonshire  is 
all  warm  luxuriance,  rolling  waste,  and 
stormy  breaker.  Its  moorland  wastes 
spread  on  and  on,  clothed  only  by  coarse 
grass,  heath,  and  furze ;  but  its  clefts 
and  chasms  are  enriched  by  a  marvelous 
fern  growth,  and  cooled  by  clear  moun- 
tain streams  holding  a  multitude  of  fish 
within  their  limpid  shallows.  Dartmoor, 
like  Salisbury  Plain,  is  one  of  nature's 
high  altars,  to  be  approached  with  rever- 
ence and  dread.  A  broad  expanse,  waste 
and  wonderful,  it  lies  like  a  sea  caught 
in  commotion  and  fixed  in  everlasting  re- 
30 


THE   PILGRIM  IN   DEVON 

pose.  The  touch  of  cultivation  has  never 
disturbed  its  bosom,  yet  is  it  a  store- 
house of  varied  wealth.  The  antiquary 
may  ponder  long,  unsatisfied,  over  its 
gigantic  mounds  and  rocky  remains,  the 
fisherman  fill  his  creel  from  its  waters, 
and  countless  sheep  nibble  the  unfenced 
pasturage  ;  but  he  whom  it  most  delights 
is  the  pilgrim  who  fares  along  its  ways, 
mindless  of  aught  save  shifting  cloud 
beauties  and  the  outline  of  the  billow- 
ing hills.  What  treasure-house  of  form 
and  color  can  match  the  English  sky.? 
Taken  at  its  sunniest,  here  arches  no 
crystal  vault  of  blue,  but  one  diversified 
by  an  ever-changeful  pageant  made  from 
sunlit  feather-down  and  clouds  the  color 
of  a  dove's  gray  wing,  —  glorified,  never- 
theless, by  sapphire  intervales.  Such  a 
procession  of  airy  loveliness  awakens  a 
wondrous  sympathy  in  Dartmoor  below. 
Over  its  tors  sweep  the  shadows,  chased 
by  a  light  that  turns  the  heather  to  rose, 
and  transforms  the  coarse  grass  to  a 
fabric  of  warm  yellow.  One  hollow  lies 
scowling  in  darkness ;  and  lo !  beside  it 
a  hill  smiles,  and  then  laughs  outright 
under  a  golden  shaft  of  sun. 

My  own  course  over  the  moor  led  from 
31 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

the  little  village  of  Chagford  to  Tavi- 
stock, thence  to  seek  Plymouth ;  and 
when  I  set  foot  in  that  historic  town,  I 
felt  the  tightening  of  Kingsley's  grasp 
upon  my  hand.  "Come,"  he  seemed 
to  say ;  "  here  was  set  the  tiny  stage 
whereon  great  parts  were  played,  as  if 
only  Olympus  were  to  be  auditor  and 
judge.  Come,  and  keep  reverent  silence; 
read  and  remember !  " 

Plymouth  is  a  town  born  for  the  per- 
petual flaunting  of  England's  glory.  It 
sits  in  well-defended  pride,  looking  calm- 
ly over  the  waves  which  are  Britannia's 
own,  and  saying  in  every  line  of  wall 
and  fortress,  "Behold  my  impregnable 
strength  !  "  Should  you,  on  arriving 
there,  confide  to  some  inhabitant  your 
desire  for  a  pleasant  walk,  he  will  say 
substantially  although  not  perhaps  in  the 
eccentric  diction  of  one  kindly  woman, 
"  Oh,  the  'O,  my  lady,  —  you  must  go  to 
the  'O !  "  Half  a  mile  from  the  station 
brings  one  to  this  Hoe,  or  highest  part 
of  the  esplanade  and  pleasure-grounds 
bordering  the  water,  and  themselves 
locked  in  a  wonder  of  stone  outwork  and 
coping.  Straight  across  the  sound  to  the 
south  runs  the  breakwater,  binding  the 
3« 


THE   PILGRIM   IN   DEVON 

waves  in  such  beneficent  yet  stony  fetters 
that  they  lie  tranquil  and  hospitable  be- 
fore the  incoming  mariner.  Fourteen 
miles  out  stands  the  Eddystone  Light- 
house, on  the  site  of  an  earlier  triumph 
of  engineering,  at  whose  firmness  even 
its  great  projector,  Smeaton,  may  have 
wondered,  as  morning  after  morning  he 
clhnbed  the  Hoe,  to  exult  as  he  found 
the  tower  still  piercing  the  sunrise  mist. 
The  tale  of  the  Eddystone  Light  has 
been  one  of  varied  tragedy.  The  first 
lighthouse  erected  there  was  washed 
away,  and  the  second  burned.  Smea- 
ton's  stood  the  shock  of  wind  and  water 
for  over  a  century,  and  then,  having  been 
removed  on  account  of  its  insecure  base, 
and  replaced  by  the  present  structure, 
was  set  up  on  the  green-carpeted  Hoe, 
a  perpetually  honored  pensioner.  Com- 
panioned by  it,  and  overlooking  fortress 
and  wave,  stands,  counterfeited  in  bronze, 
the  hero  of  the  deep,  the  scourge  of 
Spain,  Sir  Francis  Drake,  about  whose 
memory  clings  to-day  a  legendary  glory, 
which,  recited  by  old  Devon  dames  at 
the  hour  when  the  thoughts  of  kid  and 
old  woman  turn  homeward,  brings  a 
parlous  creeping  along  the  spine  even  in 
33 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

such  as  are  able  to  summon  also  that 
expression  known  in  the  older  novels  as 
"a  skeptical  smile."  Who  can  wonder, 
after  reading  Drake's  exploits,  that  Spain 
held  him  to  be  no  man,  but  devil  ?  He 
had  a  soul  perpetually  drunken  with  be- 
lief in  self  and  a  passionate  love  of  action ; 
he  was  one  of  those  who  do,  not  the 
things  they  can,  but  what  they  will ;  and 
more  than  all,  like  Napoleon  in  his  hap- 
pier days,  he  had  a  star.  His  actual 
doings  read  like  fairy  tales  ;  but  better 
than  them  all  do  I  love  the  folk-lore  indi- 
cating his  place  in  the  common  mind, 
that  afterglow  sure  to  depict  a  vanished 
sunset  more  faithfully  than  painter's 
brush  or  poet's  pen.  Was  she  not  a 
prudent  dame,  the  Spanish  favorite  who 
refused  to  join  a  water-party  with  Philip 
of  Spain,  even  at  the  risk  of  offending 
her  sovereign,  because  she  feared  "El 
Draque,"  that  water  dragon  who,  by  force 
of  his  magic  arts,  might  be  anywhere 
at  a  moment's  notice,  —  now  in  Europe, 
now  in  Prester  John's  dominions  ?  It 
was  he  who  brought  water  down  into 
Plymouth  from  clear  mountain  sources, 
by  the  simple  process  of  obtaining  a 
grant  from  the  queen,  and  the  good-will 
34 


THE   PILGRIM   IN   DEVON 

of  certain  influential  persons  through 
whose  ground  it  must  run.  But  did  such 
commonplace  means  suffice  for  the  popu- 
lar imagination  ?  Not  in  the  least.  Sir 
Francis  mounted  his  great  black  horse, 
and  rode  up  into  Dartmoor.  There  he 
found  a  spring  by  Sheep's  Tor.  He 
beckoned,  it  followed,  and,  as  he  galloped 
down  into  Plymouth  town,  the  stream,  a 
docile  Jill,  came  tumbling  after. 

"  And  fine  would  have  been  the  Diver- 
sion," says  a  worthy  chronicler,  "when 
the  Water  was  brought  somewhere  near 
the  Town,  to  have  seen  how  the  Mayor 
and  his  Brethren,  in  their  Formalities, 
went  out  to  meet  it,  and  bid  it  welcome 
hither;  and  that  being  thus  met,  they 
all  returned  together,  the  Gentlemen  of 
the  Corporation  accompanied  with  Sir 
Francis  Drake,  walked  before,  and  the 
Stream  followed  after  into  the  Town, 
where  it  has  continued  to  do  ever  since." 

Though  some  give  Sir  Francis  the 
mere  credit  of  taking  the  contract  for  the 
waterworks,  which  had  been  previously 
planned  by  others,  he  is  never  forgotten 
in  his  capacity  of  Plymouth's  cup-bearer. 
One  loving  custom  of  the  town  is  its 
annual  survey  of  the  watercourse,  amply 
35 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

described  in  a  programme  of  the  cere- 
mony, dated  July,  1891,  —  a  bit  of  paper 
calculated,  as  it  lies  in  the  hand,  to  set 
one  to  dreaming  of  that  heroic  past  with 
which  it  forms  a  solid  link. 

"  At  the  Head  Weir,"  says  this  quaint 
and  delightful  memorial,  "  the  party  be- 
ing assembled,  a  Goblet  filled  with  pure 
Water  taken  from  the  Weir  by  the  Sur- 
veyor is  handed  by  him  to  the  Chairman 
of  the  Water  Committee,  who  presents 
the  same  to  the  Mayor,  and  requests 
him  to  drink  thereof,  *  To  the  pious 
memory  of  Sir  Francis  Drake,'  and  pass- 
ing the  Cup  from  one  to  the  other  each 
drinks  and  repeats  the  same  words. 
Another  Goblet,  being  filled  with  Wine, 
is  then  presented  by  the  Chamberlain  to 
the  Mayor,  who  drinks  to  the  Toast 
— '  May  the  Descendants  of  him  who 
brought  us  Water  never  want  Wine.' 
Passing  the  Cup  as  before." 

Then  followed  "  Ye  Fyshinge  Feast," 
provided  with  trout  taken  from  the 
stream,  and  concluded  by  toasts  to  the 
royal  family,  the  mayor,  and  water  com- 
mittee, and  topped  by  one  imperishable 
custom.  For  "before  separating,"  says 
the  programme,  " '  Ye  Lovynge  Cuppe  ' 
36 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

will  be  passed  in  pledge  of  *  Uftity  and 
Prosperity'  to  the  Town  of  Plymouth." 
United  may  it  stand,  and  prosperous  as 
if  Sir  Francis  yet  reigned,  its  living 
dictator ! 

The  story  of  Drake's  marital  influence 
is  well  suited  to  his  reputed  tempera- 
ment and  generalship.  His  second  wife 
was  Elizabeth  Sydenham,  of  Combe  Sy- 
denham, Somerset ;  and  before  leaving 
her  in  the  temporary  widowhood  en- 
tailed by  one  of  his  voyages,  he  threat- 
ened her  with  dire  consequences  should 
her  fealty  waver.  Months  stretched  on 
in  a  weary  chain,  and  the  lady,  believing 
him  to  be  dead,  reluctantly  accepted  an- 
other suitor.  But  just  as  they  were  set- 
ting forth  to  church,  in  the  midst  of  a 
violent  thunder-storm,  a  ball  of  iron  a 
foot  in  diameter  fell  hot  on  the  pave- 
ment and  rolled  between  the  astonished 
pair.  As  the  impartial  student  of  his- 
tory will  at  once  believe,  the  wronged 
husband  had  taken  aim  from  the  antipo- 
des, and  as  usual  hit  his  mark.  "  It  is 
the  token  from  Drake ! "  exclaimed  the 
unwilling  bride.  "  He  is  alive  !  I  will 
not  go  to  church."  Nor  did  she,  and 
Drake  himself  soon  appeared  to  requite 
37 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

her  readiness  in  taking  a  hint.  Some, 
indeed,  say  that  the  incident  occurred 
while  the  two  were  merely  plighted 
lovers,  but  I  tell  the  tale  as  't  was  told 
to  me  within  the  Devonshire  borders. 
Historians  may  be  cheerfully  allowed  to 
have  it  otherwise,  but  even  their  dictum 
is  less  to  be  desired  than  the  warm  if 
distorted  memories  of  an  auld  wife's 
brain. 

One  bit  of  gossip  the  worshipers  of 
Sir  Francis  would  fain  consign  to  the 
lists  of  fiction,  though  it  is  set  down  by 
sober  John  Prince  in  his  "  Worthies  of 
Devon."  It  seems  that,  like  many  a 
lesser  soul,  the  admiral  was  at  one  time 
bitten  by  the  fever  of  ancestry,  and  bor- 
rowed, to  speak  in  mildness,  a  coat  of 
arms  belonging  to  Sir  Bernard  Drake, 
head  of  an  elder  branch  of  the  name, 
from  whose  line  his  own  descent  could 
not  be  traced.  Sir  Bernard  naturally 
resented  the  perching  of  this  uninvited 
guest  on  his  family  tree,  and  one  day, 
when  the  feud  had  waxed  fiery  hot, 
within  the  verge  of  the  court  he  gave 
Sir  Francis  a  box  on  the  ear.  There- 
upon Elizabeth,  jealous  for  her  favorite 
as  only  a  woman  can  be,  bestowed 
38 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

upon  Sir  Francis  a  vainglorious  coat  of 
arms  all  his  own,  indicating  symbolically 
his  dominion  over  the  world  of  waters, 
and  at  the  same  time  cunningly  flouting 
the  elder  line ;  for  in  the  rigging  of  the 
ship  adorning  the  crest  was  a  wyvern, 
copied  from  the  crest  of  Sir  Bernard, 
but  ignominiously  hung  by  the  heels. 
Nevertheless,  one  is  inclined  to  think 
Sir  Bernard  had  the  best  of  the  mat- 
ter in  his  neat  retort  that  "  though  her 
Majesty  could  give  Sir  Francis  a  nobler 
coat  than  his,  she  could  not  give  him  an 
antienter  one." 

Kingsley's  vivid  description  of  Ply- 
mouth as  it  was  in  1588,  when  the  In- 
vincible Armada  undertook  the  demoli- 
tion of  Protestant  Christendom,  is  well 
rounded,  in  his  portraiture  of  the  men 
who  were  gathered  in  the  town  to  await 
the  arch  enemy,  by  the  picture  of  "  a 
short,  sturdy,  plainly  dressed  man,  who 
stands  with  legs  a  little  apart,  and  hands 
behind  his  back,  looking  up  with  keen 
gray  eyes  into  the  face  of  each  speaker. 
His  cap  is  in  his  hands,  so  that  you  can 
see  the  bullet  head  of  crisp,  brown  hair 
and  the  wrinkled  forehead,  as  well  as  the 
high  cheek  bones,  the  short  square  face, 
39 


BY  OAK  AND   THORN 

the  broad  temples,  the  thick  lips,  which 
are  yet  firm  as  granite.  A  coarse,  ple- 
beian stamp  of  man,  yet  the  whole  figure 
and  attitude  are  that  of  boundless  de- 
termination, self-possession,  energy ;  and 
when  at  last  he  speaks  a  few  blunt  words, 
all  eyes  are  turned  respectfully  upon 
him,  for  his  name  is  Francis  Drake." 

And  there  on  Plymouth  Hoe  was  he 
playing  at  bowls  when  a  sailor  hurriedly 
put  in  shore,  to  say  that  the  enemy  had 
been  sighted.  The  English,  from  lord 
high  admiral  to  common  sailor,  were 
tired  of  waiting.  They  had  grown  un- 
easy over  conflicting  rumors  and  Eliza- 
beth's weathercock  advance  and  with- 
drawal, and  even  the  leaders  sorely 
needed  the  solace  of  that  match  on  the 
green.  Yet  when  the  great  word  broke 
upon  the  ear  of  Drake,  what  did  he  re- 
ply }  That  he  would  play  out  his  game, 
since  there  would  afterwards  be  time 
enough  and  to  spare  for  beating  the 
Spaniard.  But  who  would  attempt  re- 
peating the  after-story  which  many  have 
told  so  well  ?  Suflfice  it  for  us  to  recall 
the  folk-version  of  the  first  scene  in 
the  grand  drama,  wherein  the  winds  of 
heaven  and  the  heroism  of  earth  played 
40 


THE  PILGRIM   IN   DEVON 

antiphonal  parts.  When  the  Spanish 
fleet  appeared,  say  Plymouth  dames,  Sir 
Francis  quietly  called  for  a  billet  of 
wood  and  an  axe.  The  stick  he  pro- 
ceeded to  chop  into  small  pieces,  which, 
as  he  threw  them  into  the  water,  speedily 
became  men-of-war;  and  these  Devo- 
nian dragon's  teeth  (fraternal  and  benefi- 
cent, unlike  the  crop  of  old  !)  fell  upon 
the  enemy  of  Gloriana  the  Great,  and 
straightway  destroyed  him. 

At  the  right  of  the  Hoe,  a  wilderness 
of  greenery  overlooking  the  sea,  lies 
Mount  Edgcumbe,  wisely  selected  by 
the  leader  of  the  Armada  for  his  own 
share  of  the  spoils.  He  had  an  eye  for 
beauty,  this  Medina  Sidonia ;  and  even 
at  this  late  day,  with  all  our  sympathies 
enlisted  on  the  winning  side,  we  can  but 
feel  "  the  pity  of  it "  that  even  so  insolent 
an  invader  should  thus  have  "loved  a 
dream,"  though  we  smile,  perforce,  over 
old  Fuller's  ironical  remark  that  "the 
bear  was  not  yet  killed,  and  Medina 
Sidonia  might  have  catched  a  great  cold, 
had  he  no  other  clothes  to  wear  than  the 
skin  thereof."  It  is  easy  to  picture  the 
delight  with  which  the  sea-wearied  eyes 
of  the  Spanish  mariners  must  have  rested 
41 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

on  this  royal  spot.  Sheer  above  the 
dimpling  water  rise  mountainous  cliffs, 
crowned  by  a  noble  growth  of  trees, 
and  carpeted  with  sweet  under-verdure. 
Mount  Edgcumbe  Park,  where  the  public 
is  permitted  to  wander  on  specified  days, 
is  a  miracle  of  beauty.  Tracts  of  wood- 
land alternate  with  garden  beds  rich  in 
color.  Laurel  and  holly  reflect  the  day 
in  their  shining  leaves,  and  a  wondrous 
giant  hypericum  stars  the  ground  with 
bloom.  The  great  estate  is  traversed  by 
broad  walks  and  winding  paths,  appar- 
ently due  not  to  design,  but  to  the  errant 
will  of  some  wanderer ;  and  now  and 
again,  in  skirting  the  cliff,  you  may  look 
down  into  the  summer  sea,  over  the 
greenly  wooded  Drake's  Island  in  the 
harbor.  At  happy  intervals  are  lodge 
and  cottage,  where  you  may  order  delec- 
table tea  and  plum-cake  for  sixpence,  or 
ham  and  eggs  (the  bulwark  of  England's 
greatness)  for  another  silver  trifle.  And 
if  the  sky,  such  of  it  as  you  can  see 
through  the  treetops,  smile  upon  you, 
and  the  typical  sight-seer  be  not  omni- 
present, you  will  take  the  little  boat 
again  for  Plymouth  quay,  after  a  dreamy 
half -day  in  the  park,  more  alive  than  ever 
42 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

to  England's  beauty  and  Medina  Sidonia's 
taste  in  real  estate. 

Were  one  to  attempt  a  summary  of 
Plymouth's  notable  days  and  names,  he 
would  find  an  American  tourist's  stay 
within  its  gates  all  too  short  for  dwelling 
fitly  upon  associations  of  such  magnitude. 
From  that  port  set  sail,  in  its  golden 
days,  an  "  infinite  swarm  of  expeditions." 
Drake  put  forth  from  its  harbor  to 
circumnavigate  the  globe.  Sir  John 
Hawkins  made  it  the  initial  point  of  his 
dark  but  masterful  career.  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh's  fleet  set  sail  thence  for  the 
settlement  of  Virginia,  and  hither  he 
returned,  broken-hearted,  from  his  last 
fatal  expedition  in  quest  of  the  golden 
city  of  Manoa.  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert 
went  thence  to  Newfoundland,  a  voyage 
destined  to  stretch  on  into  that  other, 
infinite  journey,  illumined  by  the  burning 
words,  "  We  are  as  near  heaven  by  sea 
as  by  land."  From  Plymouth,  also,  em- 
barked, in  1620,  those  pilgrims  who  had 
left  Holland  for  a  bleaker  but  more  de- 
sired haven.  Quaint  and  dry  are  the 
early  chronicles  of  the  town,  denoting  a 
race  of  tough  fibre,  fit  associates  for  the 
mariners  whose  names  do  so  burn  and 
43 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

flash  upon  the  page.  These  were  men 
who  stood  no  more  upon  ceremony  than 
old  "  Frankie  Drake,"  and  who  could  give 
and  take  such  missiles  of  dry  humor  as 
might  well  be  considered  both  danger- 
ous and  deadly  in  their  effect  on  friendly 
intercourse.  Some  of  the  stories  con- 
nected with  the  early  mayors  recall  the 
candor  once  prevailing  in  the  pit  of  the 
English  theatres.  Shipley,  being  meek 
by  nature  and  deportment,  was  popularly 
called  "  Sheepley,"  and  evidently  took  no 
offense  thereat.  Farcy,  who  would  have 
the  world  know  that  he  was  **  gentleman 
born,"  struck  the  town  clerk  for  not  call- 
ing him  "your  Worship,"  and  so  was 
dubbed  thereafter  "  Worshipful  Farcy  " 
by  all  the  Plymouth  gamins,  perhaps 
even  with  the  concurrence  of  their  tough- 
hided  fathers.  Yogge,  who  was  blamed 
for  belittling  his  office  by  bearing  his 
meat  home  from  market,  returned  with 
sturdy  good  wit,  "  It's  a  poor  horse  that 
won't  carry  its  own  provender !  "  But 
of  all  the  legends  connected  with  these 
robust  city  fathers,  none  better  shows  us 
the  stuff  of  which  they  were  made  than 
a  true  tale  of  Mayor  Dirnford,  who,  in 
1455,  in  church  "on  his  opening  day," 
44 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

had  a  fit  of  apoplexy.  No  such  slight  in- 
cident, however,  could  really  disturb  his 
Worship.  He  came  out  of  it  with  dignity, 
as  from  a  recognized  part  of  the  services, 
and  at  dinner  ate  Michaelmas  goose,  say- 
ing grimly  that  the  fit  had  given  him  an 
appetite. 

Of  the  beauty  and  strength  of  Ply- 
mouth at  the  present  day,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say  too  much.  It  includes 
within  its  jurisdiction  the  sister  towns 
of  Stonehouse  and  Devonport,  all  three 
bearing  the  patent  marks  of  military  de- 
sign and  occupation.  Look  into  the  Cat- 
water  and  Hamoaze,  estuaries  of  the  Plym 
and  Tamar,  twin  rivers  of  Plymouth,  and 
you  shall  find  men-of-war  and  humble 
merchant  vessels.  Go  to  Devonport,  and 
there  you  may  seek  the  dockyards,  en- 
ticingly open  to  such  foreigners  as  are 
favored  by  the  gods  and  the  admiralty. 
Though  the  days  have  long  passed  when 
seafaring  heroes  trod  the  streets,  Ply- 
mouth will  disclose  many  a  quaint  corner 
to  such  as  are  patient  as  well  as  curious  : 
witness,  at  least,  the  Barbican,  where  one 
who  fears  not  sea  slime  and  good-natured 
chaff  may  meet  the  fishing  population  at 
dawn;  and  also  that  eccentric  auction 
45 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

distinguished  by  the  falling  of  every  bid. 
What  lover  of  the  past  could  be  misled 
by  a  garnished  exterior?  Yet  if  there 
be  one  thus  "  fond  and  foolish,"  let  him 
in  Plymouth  seek  out  that  square  where 
so  many  stately  buildings  are  congre- 
gated, and,  ignoring  their  carven  fresh- 
ness, enter  old  Saint  Andrew's  Church. 
For  there  were  the  people  at  service, 
three  hundred  years  ago,  when  a  salute 
told  the  news  that  Sir  Francis  Drake 
had  returned  from  the  seas  which  "  were 
a  prison  for  so  large  a  spirit,"  and  drew 
forth  men,  women,  and  children  to  meet 
the  victorious  hero. 

Another  bit  of  earth  where  the  loyal 
heart  beats  at  thought  of  Kingsley  and 
olden  days  is  Clovelly,  jewel  dropped  in 
a  cleft  of  the  rock,  happy  human  nest 
builded  close  by  the  sea.  The  approach 
to  this  oddest  corner  of  creation,  past 
vestiges  of  a  Roman  encampment,  gives 
no  hint  of  the  beauties  on  which  the  eye 
is  presently  to  feed.  The  coach  stops, 
apparently  in  a  gentleman's  park  devoted 
to  utilitarian  ends  ;  and  leaving  care  be- 
hind, in  the  shape  of  baggage,  the  trav- 
eler must  thereupon  take  to  his  feet  down 
a  steep,  rock-paved  road,  where  all  tour- 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

ists  fare  alike,  be  they  clad  in  frieze  or 
gold.  Suddenly,  at  a  turn  of  the  way,  ap- 
pears Ciovelly  Street,  descending  sharply 
in  low,  broad  stairs  laid  with  cobblestones. 
No  carriage  has  ever  profaned  this  stony 
staircase.  Only  the  tiny  hoofs  of  don- 
keys go  clattering  up  and  down  ;  for  it  is 
Neddy  who  patiently  toils  under  sacks 
of  coal  (trying,  meanwhile,  with  gentle 
insistence,  to  "  scrunch  "  the  unwary 
traveler  against  the  neighboring  wall), 
or  drags  about  sledges  piled  high  with 
trunk  and  portmanteau,  whose  name 
here  is  legion.  Flanking  this  declivitous 
way  runs,  on  either  side,  a  row  of  cot- 
tages, immaculate  in  whitewash,  and 
adorned  by  fuchsia  shrubs  and  gerani- 
ums. Halfway  down  stands  the  New 
Inn,  its  sign  swinging  across  the  street, 
—  a  little  old-fashioned  house,  resplen- 
dent in  old  china,  and  kept  in  perpetual 
commotion  by  the  influx  of  hungry  ex- 
cursionists, who  come  by  boat  and  coach 
to  flood  the  tiny  village  with  admiring 
exclamations. 

The  quaintness  of  Ciovelly  is  not  all 
its  charm ;  it  wears,  too,  that  of  a  won- 
drous beauty  and  delight.     Lying  as  it 
does  in  an  earth-cleft  stretching  down  to 
47 


BY    OAK   AND   THORN 

the  sea,  it  is  fostered  and  overlooked  by 
towering  wooded  cliffs,  and,  secure  in 
humble  contentment  and  sweetness  of 
life,  seems  nowise  inferior  in  merit  to 
such  natural  pomp  and  magnificence. 
The  little  street  wanders,  in  its  progress 
to  the  water ;  once,  perhaps  twice,  it 
boldly  marches  through  the  walls  of  a 
house  (itself  spanned  by  an  archway 
above),  and  then  after  threading  strange 
nooks  and  corners,  where  fishy  smells 
mingle  with  the  smoke  which  is  Clovelly's 
natural  breath,  ends  at  the  little  harbor, 
—  that  harbor  where,  as  Kingsley  says, 
in  the  season  of  herring  fishing  so  many 
boats  set  forth  with  song  and  prayer, 
*)me  never  to  return.  One  scene,  he 
tells  us,  would  come  upon  him  again  and 
again  :  of  "  the  old  bay  darkened  with 
the  gray  coldness  of  the  waterspouts 
stalking  across  the  waves  before  the 
northern  gales ;  and  the  tiny  herring 
boats  fleeing  from  their  nets  right  for 
the  breakers,  hoping  more  mercy  even 
from  those  iron  walls  of  rock  than  from 
the  pitiless  howling  wastes  of  spray  be- 
hind them  ;  and  that  merry  beach  beside 
the  town  covered  with  shrieking  women 
and  old  men,  casting  themselves  on  the 
48 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

pebbles  in  fruitless  agonies  of  prayer,  as 
corpse  after  corpse  swept  up  at  the  feet 
of  wife  and  child,  till  in  one  case  alone 
the  dawn  saw  upwards  of  sixty  widows 
and  orphans  weeping  over  those  who  had 
gone  out  the  night  before  in  the  fullness 
of  strength  and  courage." 

Kingsley's  father  was  rector  of  Clo- 
velly  during  six  of  those  years  when  the 
sensitive  lad  must  have  been  very  deli- 
cately responsive  to  new  impressions. 
Under  the  mysterious  spell  of  sea  and 
cliff,  he  conned  the  pages  of  England's 
naval  history,  learning  it  through  the 
heart  rather  than  the  mind  ;  for  here  did 
he  catch  the  spirit  of  those  men  who- 
made  it  glow  and  burn.  From  Devon 
air,  her  sunshine,  waves,  and  rocks,  rather 
than  Hakluyt's  Chronicles,  was  born  his 
fiery  sympathy  with  that  heroic  race  who 
peopled  the  deep  three  hundred  years 
ago.  "  Now,"  said  he  to  his  wife,  on 
her  first  visit  to  Clovelly,  "  now  that  you 
have  seen  the  dear  old  paradise,  you 
know  what  was  the  inspiration  of  my  life 
before  I  met  you."  His  very  spirit  per- 
meates the  place ;  his  name  is  there  a 
household  word. 

"Did   you   know   Mr.    Kingsley.?"   I 
49 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

asked  a  woman,  beautiful  with  health, 
and  bearing  the  dignity  of  a  sturdy 
character,  the  wife  of  a  "master  mari- 
ner," to  whom  a  humble  stone  was 
erected  in  Clovelly  churchyard.  Evi- 
dently, that  manner  of  speech  was  too 
familiar  as  concerning  a  beneficent  house- 
hold deity.  "  We  all  saw  him  very  often," 
she  said  with  gravity,  "  As  soon  as  he 
came  on  his  visits,  he  was  in  and  out  of 
every  house,  as  welcome  as  a  bit  of  sun- 
light on  a  wet  day,  and  asking  how  was 
this  one,  and  how  was  that,  and  had  the 
lads  got  home  from  sea .?  Ah,  we  loved 
Mr.  Kingsley !" 

His  happiest  vacations  were  spent 
here,  sometimes  as  a  guest  at  Clovelly 
Court,  and  again  in  lodgings  in  a  fuchsia- 
decked  house  on  Clovelly  Street.  Thence 
he  sailed  to  Lundy,  or  wherever  a  fisher- 
man's lot  might  lead  him,  delighting  his 
keen  eyes  and  reverent  soul  with  God's 
wonders  dredged  up  from  the  deep.  "  I 
cannot  believe  my  eyes,"  was  his  home- 
satisfied  cry,  on  settling  into  a  welcoming 
nest.  "The  same  place,  the  pavement, 
the  dear  old  smells,  the  dear  old  hand- 
some faces  again ! " 

The  people  who  fill  the  picturesque 
SO 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

village  houses  are  of  a  noble  and  digni- 
fied type.  Clovelly  women  are  tall  and 
shapely;  the  men  bear  in  face  and  car- 
riage unmistakable  marks  of  thought  and 
feeling,  and  the  children  are  marvels  of 
dark-eyed  beauty.  With  such  simplicity 
and  directness  does  the  body  here  express 
the  soul  that  you  may  read  daily,  in 
living  lineaments,  the  story  of  a  fine  and 
striving  race.  Life  to  these  men  is  little 
more  or  less  than  a  year-long  struggle 
with  the  treacherous  sea.  So  constantly 
are  they  brought  face  to  face  with  danger 
that  minor  griefs  are  no  longer  present 
to  remembrance,  and  the  desire  of  eter- 
nal life  becomes  to  them  all  in  all.  Such 
men  were  their  dead-and-gone  ancestors, 
who  fought  the  Armada,  and  went,  "grim 
or  jocund,"  in  quest  of  the  "golden  South 
Americas ; "  such,  in  endurance  and  rigid 
purpose,  was  Salvation  Yeo,  of  "West- 
ward Ho ! "  who  was  born  in  Clovelly 
Street,  in  the  year  1 526,  where  his  "father 
exercised  the  mystery  of  a  barber  sur- 
geon and  a  preacher  of  the  people  since 
called  Anabaptists."  One  noticeable  cir- 
cumstance, strange  and  pregnant,  is  that 
Clovelly  has  no  young  men.  They  are 
all  at  sea,  serving  their  apprenticeship, 
51 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

to  come  home  for  the  innocent  kisses  of 
a  dozen  joyous  women  waiting  on  the 
quay,  or  to  furnish  new  cause  for  the  old 
ache,  throbbing  for  the  wanderer  who 
may  not  return. 

Clovelly  may  be  approached  through 
the  Hobby  Drive,  a  way  of  marvelous 
beauty  skirting  the  top  of  the  cliff, 
guarded  by  towering  trees,  and  bordered 
with  a  lush  undergrowth  of  ferns.  From 
time  to  time  in  his  course,  the  traveler 
will  come  upon  a  natural  window  in  the 
leafy  walls,  —  an  airy  space,  whence  he 
may  overlook  the  blue  sea,  seek  out 
Lundy's  outline,  severely  simple,  and  in 
the  distance  the  shadowy  coast  of  Wales ; 
and  finally  shall  he  receive  the  crowning 
vision  of  Clovelly  herself,  far  below  his 
eyrie,  nestling  in  her  flowery  gorge,  and 
drowsily  indifferent  to  sea  or  wind.  This 
road,  a  veritable  fairy  progress,  belongs 
to  Clovelly  Court,  where  in  the  sixteenth 
century  lived  the  Carys,  one  of  whom 
figures  so  prominently  among  Kingsley's 
giants  of  action.  They  held  it  till  the 
eighteenth  century,  when  their  branch 
of  the  family  died  out.  And  where  now 
shall  we  seek  a  trace  of  the  gallant  Will 
who  was  one  of  that  noble  Brotherhood 
52 


THE   PILGRIM   IN   DEVON 

of  the  Rose,  founded  by  Frank  Leigh, 
worthy  favorite  of  the  Virgin  Queen  ? 
Only  Kingsley  can  rehearse  his  mimic 
history,  though,  if  the  trace  of  one  of 
his  forbears  be  cheering  to  the  eye,  the 
traveller  may  climb  the  height  to  the 
little  church,  to  find  a  Gary's  name  in 
enduring  brass.  Another  point  of  pil- 
grimage on  the  estate  is  Gallantry  Bower, 
a  steep  cliff  rising  four  hundred  feet  out 
of  the  sea,  and  commanding  Hartland 
Point,  Bideford  Bay,  and,  stretching  ever 
outward  like  a  weird  finger,  Morte  Point, 
where  so  many  ships  have  gone  down,  — 
barren  and  dreadful  Morte,  which  of  all 
places  on  earth  "  God  made  last,  and  the 
devil  will  take  first."  Gallantry  Bower, 
as  Amyas  says,  is  so  named  when  one  is 
on  land,  though  you  **  always  call  it  White 
Cliff  when  you  see  it  from  the  seaboard." 
It  has  its  appropriate  legend  ;  for  here,  in 
a  lonely  tower,  lived  the  fair  lady  of  a 
Norman  lord.  She  had  a  fine  vantage 
point  for  surveying  the  world  around, 
this  victim  of  soft  durance !  Peace  to 
her  dust,  —  peace  equal  in  measure  to 
the  skyful  of  beauty  whereon  she  daily 
looked ! 

To  go  into  lodgings  at  Clovelly  is  to 
53 


BY   OAK   AND  THORN 

invite  a  possibility  of  becoming  soon  in- 
terknit  with  the  life  of  its  kindly  people. 
In  an  angle  of  the  stairlike  street,  almost 
overhanging  the  quay,  stands  a  bench 
serving  as  council  ground  for  the  village 
fathers.  There,  usually  at  twilight,  when 
the  boats  have  come  in  and  nets  are  dry- 
ing, sits  a  row  of  grizzled  mariners  dis- 
cussing the  state  —  of  the  world,  think 
you  ?  Nay,  of  the  universe  itself.  One 
bit  of  quaint  philosophy,  overheard  during 
such  a  twilight  symposium,  has  lingered 
in  my  ears,  to  sweeten  many  a  tough 
morsel  of  experience.  "  Well,"  said  one 
of  these  weatherworn  sea-dogs,  in  the 
tone  of  those  who  have  drawn  their  own 
conclusions  from  the  inexplicable  drama 
called  Life,  "  human  nature 's  looking  up 
a  bit;  that's  the  only  comfort."  And 
is  human  nature  looking  up  even  a  bit, 
Clovelly  sailor,  more  familiar  with  the 
deep  than  with  human  countenance,  and 
unpolluted  by  the  grime  of  great  cities  } 
It  may  be  so  ;  for  out  of  the  lips  of  men 
unspotted  from  the  world  come  often 
truths  more  crystalline  than  those  of  sci- 
ence or  statistics.  In  the  village  is  sold 
a  photograph  of  Clovelly  mariners,  and 
one  face,  a  humorous,  droll  physiognomy, 
S4 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

at  once  strikes  the  attention.  "And 
who  is  this  ? "  I  asked  the  sympathetic 
dealer.  *'  Oh,  that  is  poor  old  Captain 
Folly,"  said  she,  with  a  tear  in  her  voice. 
"  He  died  the  other  day.  You  must  have 
been  here."  Yes,  we  were  there  in  our 
lodgings  at  the  head  of  the  street,  when 
Captain  Folly  was  borne  past  by  his 
brother  mariners  in  their  Sunday  best ; 
wearing  also  the  becoming  gravity  of 
those  who  think  gently  and  seriously  of 
death,  not  during  the  one  hour  when  it 
disturbs  them  at  their  avocations,  but  as 
children  recognize  the  night  as  the  inevi- 
table foil  of  day.  A  solemn  hymn  was 
sung,  strong  voices  sustaining  the  burden, 
and  up  the  street  to  the  little  church  was 
carried  the  old  man  whose  journey  was 
finished,  and  who  slept,  wrapped  in  honor 
and  full  of  days,  beneath  the  flag  spread 
reverently  upon  his  coffin. 

Midway  down  the  street  stands  —  or 
stood  —  another  old  man,  whose  race  is 
not  soon  to  be  run,  judging  from  his 
apparent  ability  to  keep  feebleness  and 
sorrow  at  bay.  He  is  crippled,  and  waits 
at  the  domestic  receipt  of  custom,  ready 
to  retail  village  gossip,  and  readier  still 
to  dispose,  in  a  very  self-respecting  man- 
55 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

ner,  of  the  forthcoming  shilling  or  six- 
pence. He  is  a  trifle  more  cynical  than 
many  of  his  brother  mariners,  this  aged 
man,  the  daily  implication  of  whose  life 
is,  "A  penny,  if  you  please,"  yet  he 
furnishes  savor  and  spice  in  a  godly 
community. 

But  in  order  to  find  himself  actually 
near  the  heart  of  this  simple  folk,  it  is 
the  part  of  the  reflective  traveler  to 
attend  chapel  on  Sunday,  and  not  the 
church.  Such  a  service,  once  sought 
out  and  followed,  is  never  to  be  forgotten. 
A  rough  hall  in  an  obscure  corner  jutting 
from  the  street,  bare  and  uninteresting 
as  the  old  country  schoolhouse,  is  filled 
with  worshipers,  who  at  entrance  and 
departure  make  a  mighty  clattering  on 
the  uncarpeted  floor,  and  whose  heart  of 
religious  love  raises  their  hymn-singing 
to  a  resounding  if  strident  chorus.  What 
lover  of  human  expression  would  not 
study  reverently  the  faces  in  that  lowly 
chapel .''  Every  eye  fixed  upon  the 
preacher,  —  a  man  who  had  somewhat 
to  say,  a  sermon  full  of  hard  and  lov- 
ing common  -  sense,  —  their  earnestness 
bespoke  sheep  worthy  the  guidance  of 
a  faithful  shepherd  ;  not  such  as  feed 
56 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

in  grassy  vales,  but  accustomed  to  stony 
ways  and  mountain  fastnesses,  to  storm 
and  night.  One  old  man,  whose  every 
look  and  gesture  was  of  the  sea,  empha- 
sized the  prayers,  from  point  to  point, 
with  sonorous  "  amens."  His  soul  drank 
of  the  waters  of  life,  said  the  recurrent 
response  ;  this  was  his  thanksgiving. 

Eleven  miles  from  Clovelly  lies  Lun- 
dy,  from  whose  southeast  edge  rises  the 
Shutter  Rock,  terrible  dramatic  centre 
of  the  tragedy  so  marvelously  described 
in  "  Westward  Ho ! "  when,  at  the  end 
of  Amyas  Leigh's  sixteen  days'  chase 
of  the  Spaniard,  the  wind  a  destroying 
angel,  and  lightnings  and  thunder  the 
messengers  of  an  avenging  heaven,  Don 
Guzman's  ship  was  cast  upon  the  rocks. 
What  traveler  so  painstaking  as  to  seek 
out  Lundy  will  not  remember  at  the 
south  that  cliff  overhanging  the  shore- 
less cove  and  deep,  dark  sea,  where  blind 
Amyas  sat  and  drank  in  his  vision  of 
the  Spanish  galleon,  and  her  men  "all 
lying  round  her,  asleep  until  the  judg- 
ment day  "  ? 

"  Don  Guzman  he  never  heeded,  but 
sat  still  and  drank  his  wine.  Then  he 
took  a  locket  from  his  bosom ;  and  I 
57 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

heard   him    speak,    Will,   and    he   said, 

*  Here 's  the  picture  of  my  fair  and  true 
lady ;  drink  to  her,  Senors  all.'  Then  he 
spoke  to  me.  Will,  and  called  me  right 
up  through   the  oar-weed  and  the  sea : 

*  We  have  had  a  fair  quarrel,  Senor,  and 
it  is  time  to  be  friends  once  more.  My 
wife  and  your  brother  have  forgiven  me, 
so  your  honor  takes  no  stain.'  And  I 
answered,  *We  are  friends,  Don  Guz- 
man ;  God  has  judged  our  quarrel,  and 
not  we.'  Then  he  said,  '  I  have  sinned, 
and  I  am  punished.'  And  I  said,  'And, 
Senor,  so  am  I.'  Then  he  held  out  his 
hand  to  me,  Gary,  and  I  stooped  to  take 
it,  and  I  woke." 

Lundy,  in  the  days  before  steam  had 
rendered  traveling  "as  easy  as  lying," 
was  so  inaccessible  as  to  provoke  the  re- 
mark that  the  difficulty  of  getting  there 
was  exceeded  only  by  the  difficulty  of 
getting  away.  Indeed,  it  is  said  that  the 
clergymen  of  five  or  six  coast  parishes 
once  made  an  excursion  thither,  and 
were  detained  on  the  island  over  two 
Sundays,  to  the  exceeding  dismay  of 
their  waiting  congregations,  —  an  en- 
forced season  of  retirement  which,  it  is 
hoped,  the  reverend  gentlemen  employed 
58 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

for  the  good  of  their  souls.  The  island 
is  one  of  that  brood  of  earth  pigmies 
born  to  mightiness  of  garb  and  history. 
Its  granite  and  slate  defenses  present  an 
impregnable  front  to  the  Atlantic,  and 
surging  currents  rage  about  it  with  a 
strength  and  fury  to  be  surpassed  only 
at  Land's  End.  But  once  within  its 
rocky  gates,  more  smiling  beauties  greet 
the  eye,  for  its  vegetation  is  rich  in 
that  coloring  which  is  the  benison  of  sea 
air.  Here  heather  and  furze  glow  in 
rose  and  gold,  the  royal  foxglove  stands, 
and  the  sedum  blesses  the  earth  with 
bloom. 

Lundy  has  had  a  checkered  history, 
ever  painted  in  gloomy  and  glaring  hues. 
It  can  boast  remains  of  a  primeval  popu- 
lation in  flint  and  pottery,  but  few  will 
care  to  trace  its  history  further  than  the 
day  of  Sir  Jordan  de  Moresco,  its  earliest 
recorded  lord,  who  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
II.  lived  there  a  turbulent  and  piratical 
life,  undaunted  by  king  or  peer,  though 
his  bit  of  land  was  declared  forfeit  to  the 
crown.  Of  good  old  stuff  were  the  Mo- 
rescos,  and  they  fought  a  valiant  fight 
against  law  and  order  until  1242,  when 
William  of  that  name  was  seized  and 
59 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

hanged  in  London  town.  Thereafter, 
Lundy  became  a  favorite  resort  for 
pirates,  and  was  captured  in  turn  by 
French,  Spanish,  and  even  Turkish  pri- 
vateers. Seek  its  pages  to-day,  and  you 
will  read  the  tamer  sequel  to  so  bold 
a  story :  a  few  houses  cluster  at  the 
landing-cove,  a  lighthouse  crowns  the 
plateau  above ;  the  scene  is  one  of  qui- 
etude, broken  only  by  the  turmoil  of 
nature.  On  the  upper  plain  lie  also  the 
ruins  of  an  ancient  fortress  known  as 
Moresco's  Castle,  forever  tainted  by  the 
blot  of  having  sheltered  a  dastardly  refu- 
gee. Sir  Lewis  Stukely,  Vice-Admiral  of 
Devonshire,  and  kinsman  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  who  through  that  craven  means 
came  to  the  headsman's  block.  By  this 
Judas-like  deed,  Stukely  earned  the  royal 
favor,  but  irretrievably  lost  that  of  his 
peers  ;  and  being  vigorously  insulted  by 
old  Lord  Howard  of  Effingham,  he  ran 
whining  to  James  and  made  complaint. 
"  What  should  I  do  with  him  ? "  queried 
James.  "  Hang  him  ?  On  my  sawl,  mon, 
if  I  hung  all  that  spoke  ill  of  thee,  all  the 
trees  in  the  island  were  too  few  !  "  But 
Stukely  was  to  learn  that  treachery  to  a 
friend  and  defection  from  a  royal  master 
60 


THE   PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

are  two  different  offenses ;  for  when, 
within  a  year,  he  was  caught  debasing 
the  coin  of  the  realm,  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  flight  before  the  winds  of 
wrath.  Into  Devonshire  hot-foot  he  hur- 
ried, and  there  was  he  resolutely  boy- 
cotted; his  own  denied  him,  and  the 
common  people  would  give  him  "  neither 
fire  nor  water."  Again  was  he  swept 
on  by  fate  and  furies  to  Lundy,  and,  seek- 
ing refuge  in  the  old  Moresco  Castle, 
died  there,  "cursing  God  and  man." 

Not  far  from  Clovelly  lies  Portledge, 
now  the  seat  of  the  Pine-Coffins,  and  in 
Amyas  Leigh's  time  the  residence  of 
that  Will  Coffin  who  made  one  among 
the  lovers  of  Rose  Salterne,  The  most 
prominent  member  of  the  old  Coffin 
family  figures  boldly  among  Prince's 
"Worthies  of  Devon,"  and  his  life  pre- 
sents a  pretty  bit  of  incident  scarcely 
to  be  told  more  vividly  than  in  Prince's 
own  diction,  quaint  and  clear.  This  Sir 
William  Coffin  married,  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII.,  Lady  Mannors  of  Derby- 
shire ;  "  and  residing,  as  is  likely,  with 
her  on  her  Dowry  in  those  Parts,  he  was 
chosen  Knight  of  that  Shire  in  the  Parli- 
ment  which  began  A.  21  K.  Henry  VIII^ 
6i 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

1529:  In  his  way  to  which,  there  hap- 
pened a  remarkable  Accident,  not  un- 
worthy the  relating,  especially  for  the 
good  Law  it  occasioned :  Passing  by  a 
Church-yard,  he  saw  a  multitude  of  Peo- 
ple standing  Idle ;  he  enquired  into  the 
cause  thereof :  Who  reply'd.  They  had 
brought  a  Corse  thither  to  be  buried ; 
but  the  Priest  refused  to  do  his  office 
unless  they  first  delivered  him  the  Poor 
Man's  Cow,  the  only  quick  goods  he  left, 
for  a  Mortuary.  Sir  William  sent  for 
the  Priest,  and  required  him  to  do  his 
Office  to  the  Dead  :  Who  peremptorily 
refused  it,  unless  he  had  his  Mortuary 
first.  Whereupon  he  caused  the  Priest  to 
be  put  into  the  Poor  Man's  Grave,  and 
Earth  to  be  thrown  in  upon  him ;  and  he 
still  persisting  in  his  Refusal,  there  was 
still  more  earth  thrown  in,  until  the 
obstinate  Priest  was  either  altogether  or 
well-nigh  suffocated."  This  little  drama 
led  to  an  act  of  Parliament  absolutely  fix- 
ing the  amount  of  mortuaries,  and  spe- 
cifying the  place  of  payment,  so  that 
no  poor  man  was  thereafter  likely  to  be 
denied  his  last  rites  and  resting-place. 
**  All  which,"  as  Prince  begs  us  to  "make 
a  note  of,"  "  Confirms  the  Observation, 
62 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

That  Evil  Manners  are  often  the  Parent 
of  Good  Laws." 

It  were  a  pert  and  presumptuous  pen 
which  would  attempt  a  description  of 
Bideford  after  Kingsley  has  ticketed  it 
with  missal  script,  and  laid  it  away  for 
all  time,  in  library  records,  as  "  the  little 
white  town  .  .  .  which  slopes  upwards 
from  its  broad  tide-river  paved  with  yel- 
low sands,  and  many-arched  old  bridge 
where  salmon  wait  for  autumn  floods, 
toward  the  pleasant  upland  on  the  west. 
Above  the  town  the  hills  close  in,  cush- 
ioned with  deep  oak  woods,  through 
which  juts  here  and  there  a  crag  of  fern- 
fringed  slate ;  below  they  lower,  and 
open  more  and  more  in  softly-rounded 
knolls  and  fertile  squares  of  red  and 
green,  till  they  sink  into  the  wide  ex- 
panse of  hazy  flats,  rich  salt-marshes, 
and  rolling  sand-hills,  where  Torridge 
joins  her  sister  Taw,  and  both  together 
flow  quietly  toward  the  broad  surges  of 
the  bar,  and  the  everlasting  thunder  of 
the  long  Atlantic  swell."  But  the  trav- 
eler who  arrives  there  with  the  begin- 
ning of  "  Westward  Ho  ! "  warm  in  the 
memory  will  recall  that,  in  the  year  1575. 
Amyas  Leigh,  wandering  home  from 
63 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

school  along  the  quay,  by  the  taverns 
that  lined  the  High  Street,  met  there 
two  men  telling  strange  tales  of  the  gold 
and  gems  of  the  New  World,  and  the 
marvelous  adventures  attendant  on  their 
quest.  These  were  Mr.  John  Oxenham, 
of  whose  family  Devonshire  traditions 
contain  curious  mention,  and  Salvation 
Yeo.  That  the  latter  was  a  true  Devon- 
shire name  "  the  bricks  are  alive  to  this 
day  to  testify ; "  for  in  Bideford  town  I 
saw  it,  not  many  months  ago,  on  a  pro- 
saic and  humble  signboard.  But  though 
syllables  may  defy  the  lapse  of  time,  the 
ancient  taverns  are  gone,  and  the  High 
Street  is  a  busy  course  of  trade.  Even 
the  old  church,  where  Amyas  and  his 
brother  mariners  gave  thanks  after  their 
wonderful  voyage  with  Drake,  has  made 
place  for  a  new  one.  Only  the  muddy 
Torridge  flows  daily  in  and  out,  alternat- 
ing in  yellow  flats  and  dimpling  water, 
and  Bideford  bridge  stands  proud  and 
firm  in  the  very  outlines  it  wore  when 
the  lad  Amyas  begged  of  Salvation  Yeo 
his  carven  horn.  So  old  is  this  historic 
bridge  that  no  man  knoweth  the  date 
of  its  building.  The  most  ancient  ex- 
isting seal  of  Bideford  borough,  dating 
64 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

from  the  fourteenth  century,  bears  its 
portrait;  therefore  must  it  have  been 
alive  and  in  good  and  honorable  stand- 
ing at  that  day.  Its  origin,  like  that 
of  all  truly  self-respecting  structures 
in  Great  Britain,  is  supernatural.  It  is 
recorded  that  the  river  was  long  ago 
crossed  by  a  ford  so  dangerous  that  no 
stones  could  be  laid  there  with  any  hope 
of  permanence.  Finally,  however,  the 
parish  priest  was  told  in  a  dream  that  a 
stone  had  been  moved  to  a  desirable 
spot  in  the  stream,  and  there  should  the 
bridge  be  built.  So  this  holy  medium  of 
communication  'twixt  Heaven  and  Bide- 
ford,  Sir  Richard  Gomard,  or  Gurney,  re- 
vealed his  vision  to  the  bishop,  who  was 
pleased  to  "send  forth  indulgences  and 
licenses"  in  order  to  enlist  the  good 
offices  of  his  flock.  They,  obedient 
souls,  gave  abundantly,  each  according 
to  his  means.  Many  contributed  money ; 
the  rich  gave  lands  and  the  labor  of 
their  workmen,  and  the  poor  cheerfully 
offered  the  work  of  their  hands,  some 
for  a  week,  and  others,  more  prosperous 
or  more  zealous,  for  a  month.  That  the 
succeeding  bishops  had  the  bridge's  wel- 
fare in  mind  is  indicated  by  the  fact  that 
6S 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

announcement  was  made  not  only  from 
the  cathedral  church  of  Exeter,  but 
throughout  the  diocese  of  Devonshire 
and  Cornwall,  that  those  who  would 
promote  and  encourage  this  work  "  should 
participate  in  all  spiritual  blessings  for- 
ever." No  wonder  that  the  bridge  be- 
came so  rich  as  to  hold  its  head  high, 
and  bear  itself  with  the  dignity  of  a 
landed  proprietor,  becoming,  first  and 
last,  "  an  inspired  bridge,  a  soul-saving 
bridge,  an  alms-giving  bridge,  an  educa- 
tional bridge,  a  sentient  bridge,  and  last, 
but  not  least,  a  dinner-giving  bridge." 

It  was  to  the  Grenviles  that  Bide- 
ford  owed  its  early  prosperity.  The 
first  Grenvile  of  Bideford  was  a  cousin 
of  the  Conqueror ;  but  the  bright  star  of 
that  heroic  family  remains  Sir  Richard, 
whose  prowess  is  sung  by  every  chanter 
of  Devon's  fame,  and  who  departed  this 
life  in  a  swiftly-traced  but  ever-during 
track  of  glory.  For  in  the  Revenge,  off 
Flores,  with  a  hundred  and  twenty  men, 
he  fought  the  Spanish  fleet  of  fifty  sail 
and  ten  thousand  men,  from  three  in 
the  afternoon  till  daybreak  next  morn- 
ing. But  when,  in  that  fury  of  battle, 
more  than  a  thousand  of  the  enemy  were 
66 


THE   PILGRIM   IN  DEVON 

slain,  while  the  Revenge  lost  but  forty, 
when  his  boat  was  riddled  through  and 
through,  and  he  himself  was  wounded, 
he  would  fain  have  blown  up  the  vessel, 
and  was  forced  to  surrender  only  through 
want  of  ammunition.  Three  days  after, 
he  died  of  his  wounds,  saying  in  Span- 
ish, that  his  captors  might  understand 
and  know  themselves  defied  to  the  last, 
"  Here  die  I,  Richard  Grenvile,  with  a 
joyful  and  quiet  mind,  for  that  I  have 
ended  my  life  as  a  good  soldier  ought  to 
do,  who  has  fought  for  his  country  and 
his  queen,  for  honor  and  religion," 

Such  was  Richard  Grenvile,  who  walks 
through  "  Westward  Ho  !  "  and  the  pages 
of  less  poetic  history  "  a  wise  and  gallant 
gentleman,  lovely  to  all  good  men,  awful 
to  all  bad  men  :  in  whose  presence  none 
dare  say  or  do  a  mean  or  a  ribald  thing ; 
whom  brave  men  left,  feeling  themselves 
nerved  to  do  their  duty  better,  while 
cowards  slipped  away,  as  bats  and  owls 
before  the  sun."  Well  is  he  remembered 
as  "  the  great  Sir  Richard,  the  pride  of 
North  Devon." 

Kingsley's  authority  has  been  ques- 
tioned for  making  Bideford  one  of  Eng- 
land's chief  ports  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
67 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

tury,  though  its  halcyon  days,  beginning 
under  Elizabeth,  rapidly  brightened, 
until  its  commerce  with  America  and 
NcAArtfoundland  became  exceeding  great. 
French  and  Spanish  privateers  found 
Bideford  ships  such  rich  booty  that  they 
seized  them  in  the  very  offing  of  the 
Taw  and  Torridge,  and  ironically  named 
the  spot  "  Golden  Bay."  But  such  flour- 
ishing of  commerce  is  a  thing  of  the  past, 
for  now  the  shipping  trade  of  the  Tor- 
ridge is  conducted  mainly  at  the  neigh- 
boring town  of  Appledore.  Burrough 
in  Northam,  where  Kingsley  fixed  the 
home  of  Amyas  Leigh,  has  been  for 
centuries  the  seat  of  a  family  of  the 
name  of  Leigh,  two  of  whom  were  sea- 
faring men,  and  one,  in  Elizabeth's  time, 
"  Chief  Pilot  of  England."  A  member 
of  a  luckless  expedition  to  the  Arctic 
seas  in  the  sixteenth  century,  he  daringly 
continued  his  voyage,  even  though  a 
companion  ship  was  separated  from  him 
by  wind  and  weather.  On  he  sailed 
into  the  north,  the  region  of  perpetual 
mystery,  and,  most  undaunted  of  pio- 
neers, entered  the  White  Sea,  naming 
the  North  Cape  by  the  way.  Again,  in 
an  insignificant  vessel  with  a  tiny  crew, 
68 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

he  sailed  triumphantly  to  a  point  within 
the  Kara  Sea,  "  beyond  which,"  says 
Prince,  "  no  navigator  went  until  our 
own  day."  Truly  Amy  as  the  giant  came 
of  a  goodly  race,  and  one  whose  tradi- 
tions bound  him  to  heroic  deeds. 

Near  the  mouth  of  the  Torridge  lies  a 
delightfully  clean  little  town,  a  seaside 
resort  of  some  pretension.  This  is  West- 
ward Ho,  born  of  the  great  book  to 
which  the  region  is  yearly  indebted  for 
crowding  visitors.  Though  the  town  is 
modern,  even  amazingly  so  among  such 
surroundings,  its  near  neighbor  is  as  old 
as  —  what  ?  Let  geology  tell  us.  I  had 
almost  said,  in  the  ignorant  enthusiasm 
of  the  unscientific  pilgrim,  "  as  old  as 
Adam."  This  neighbor  is  the  Pebble 
Ridge,  whose  moaning  told  poor  Mrs. 
Leigh,  three  miles  away  in  Bideford 
town,  that  the  sea  and  winds  were  rap- 
idly rising,  and  that  her  boy,  on  his  way 
to  Ireland,  would  not  sleep  that  night. 
The  Ridge  is  simply  a  wide  beach  heaped 
with  pebbles,  the  smallest  larger  than 
the  fist,  and  on  the  day  of  my  pilgrimage 
lying  at  rest  beside  a  calm  sea  and  under 
a  smiling  sky.  But  it  is  easily  to  be 
guessed  that  when  the  demons  of  ai^  and 
69 


BY  OAK  AND   THORN 

water  strive  together,  these  missiles  of 
the  deep,  wet  with  ocean  spume,  are  cast 
mightily  upon  one  another,  until  they 
rattle  like  the  fetters  of  giants  captive. 
Behind  them  lie  Northam  Burrows,  broad, 
smiling  expanses  clothed  with  coarse 
grass,  and  delightful  to  the  British  golfer, 
who  there  amuses  himself  religiously, 
quite  as  the  Armada  captains  played  at 
skittles  on  the  Hoe.  Is  it  beyond  pos- 
sibility that,  in  our  own  "  empty  day," 
some  game  of  golf  may  be  historic .-' 

When  and  where  shall  the  pilgrim 
content  himself .''  Shall  he  follow  the 
uttermost  traces  of  those  he  would  fain 
have  known,  and,  knowing,  offered  rev- 
erence, even  when  the  present  fails  to 
copy  fair  the  past  ?  If  he  elect  to  do  so, 
then  may  he  seek  Freshwater  at  Clovelly, 
where  "Irish  ffoxe  came  out  of  rocks," 
to  lose  his  brush  of  self-sufficiency,  de- 
spoiled by  giant  Amyas  ;  yet  here  he  will 
find  but  slender  trickling  of  the  stream 
of  clear  water,  and  slight  reminder  of 
such  shy  quarry,  so  peaceful  is  the  scene. 
He  may  religiously  visit  Marsland  Mouth, 
where  lived  Lucy  Passmore,  the  "white 
witch,"  to  find  it  a  Devonshire  combe, 
full  of  every-day  contentment ;  or  he  may 
70 


THE  PILGRIM  IN  DEVON 

traverse  Dartmoor,  and  put  the  finger  of 
fancy  on  the  very  spot  where  Salvation 
Yeo  slew  the  king  of  the  Gubbings. 
Time  and  enthusiasm  must  direct  him, 
but  he  can  scarcely  be  disappointed  in 
any  Devonian  quest,  even  where  he  looks 
for  castle  or  hovel,  and  finds  not  one 
stone  left  upon  another ;  for  always  and 
everywhere  are  the  changeful  skies, 
warm  cliffs,  and  smiling  or  tempestuous 
sea ;  everywhere  his  hope  will  be  set  in 
the  gold  of  trefoil  or  the  rose  of  heather. 
Devonshire  herself  has  not  waxed  old 
nor  faded,  and  in  holding  her  warm  hand 
and  gazing  into  her  true  eyes  he  may 
comfort  himself  with  the  certainty  that 
even  so  was  she  in  those  yesterdays 
made  for  the  building  of  great  epics. 
71 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  DOONES 

It  was  during  my  first  summer's  travel 
in  Great  Britain,  now  sojourning  in  hotels 
where  milk  was  cream  and  the  butter 
overlaid  with  gold,  and  again  purringly 
content  in  the  humblest  of  lodgings,  that 
I  chanced,  at  Ilfracombe,  to  secure  a  bed- 
room over  a  dairyman's  shop.  The  finger 
of  fate  was  in  this ;  for,  passing  through 
the  shop  in  search  of  adventure  without, 
I  espied  near  the  doorway  a  large  wooden 
box  marked  distinctly  "  Ridd."  To  see 
was  figuratively  to  pounce  upon  this  auto- 
graphic trace  of  friend  and  hero. 

"  Now,  who  is  Ridd.-*"  quoth  I,  point- 
ing a  dramatic  finger  at  the  legend. 

"  John  Ridd,  miss  .-'  "  quaked  the 
shopman,  consciously  innocent  and  yet 
alarmed,  viewing  the  box  as  it  might  be 
a  forerunner  of  November  Fifth.  "  He 
sends  it  in  full  of  eggs,  miss ;  and  it  goes 
back  to  him  for  more." 

"But  who  is  John  Ridd?       Is  he  a 
giant  ?    Does  he  dearly  love  coUops  of 
venison  ?     Did  he  marry  "  — 
72 


THE  HAUNT  OF  TfiE  DOONES 

"  Bless  you,  miss  ! "  interrupted  my 
shopman,  "  all  amort  :  "  "  he  's  a  dairy- 
man ;  but  he  's  nowise  remarkable." 

This  was  the  first  faint  footprint  of 
Lorna's  John  on  Devonshire  sand :  and 
it  greatly  inflamed  the  mind  with  desire 
of  an  extended  pilgrimage,  wherein  Lyn- 
ton,  famed  among  the  jewels  of  Devon, 
should  be  the  initial  point.  Possibly 
the  enthusiast  who  works  by  rule  and 
compass  would  have  traced  the  honest 
yeoman's  career,  from  its  beginning  at 
Blundell  School  across  the  moor  to 
Plover's  Barrows  (even,  with  painstaking 
exactitude,  locating  the  Dulverton  pump, 
where  he  dodged  a  kiss),  thence  to  his 
meeting  with  Lorna,  and  so  on  to  Lon- 
don Town  ;  but  something  must  at  times 
be  sacrificed  to  the  common -sense  of 
travel,  and  thus  it  was  that  we  made  our 
path  in  a  measure  straight. 

Lynton  has  been  a  thousand  times 
lauded  in  breathless  interjections,  by 
sounding  paragraphs  ;  but  it  remains  the 
despair  of  word-imagery.  The  town  is 
builded  upon  a  wood-covered  height, 
flanked  behind  by  rolling  tors,  unlimited 
even  by  the  far  distance ;  and  four  hun- 
dred feet  below,  approached  either  by 
73 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

the  lift  or  a  steep,  winding  track,  lies  the 
little  harbor  of  Lynmouth,  cherisher  of 
the  noisy  Lyn  stream  running  thereby 
and  clamoring  for  the  sea.  More  like 
far-famed  Clovelly  than  any  sister  town, 
Lynmouth  has  chosen  foothold  in  a  cleft 
of  mighty  crags.  Majestically  they  tower 
above  her,  while  she  broods  in  peace  at 
the  water  gate,  guarded  in  friendly  fash- 
ion by  a  quaint  Rhenish  tower,  erected 
solely  for  the  delight  of  artistic  eyes. 
At  a  distance  of  something  more  than 
a  mile  from  Lynton  is  the  Valley  of 
Rocks,  to  be  approached,  if  the  traveler 
is  truly  wise,  only  by  the  cliff  walk,  —  a 
footpath  cut  in  the  living  rock  and,  faith- 
fully rendered  by  its  name,  on  the  very 
face  of  the  cliff.  An  enchanted  way,  it 
leads  on  and  on,  through  almost  impos- 
sible glories  of  color  and  light.  Below, 
a  sheer  descent  to  the  sea,  stretches  the 
cliff.  Above,  also,  it  towers  inaccessible, 
.(  carpeted  everywhere  with  a  wondrous 
richness  of  growth.  Heather  smiles  in 
roseate  purple,  gorse  glows  resplendent, 
and  a  certain  nodding  fairy  bell  intensi- 
fies the  upper  blue.  At  the  right,  looking 
Lynmouth  way,  a  huge  cliff  or  foreland 
sweeps  into  the  sea,  "one  entire  and 
74 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  DOONES 

perfect  chrysolite  "  in  gemlike  coloring. 
Rich  browns  shade  into  purple  and  rose- 
red  ;  and,  at  those  gala  moments  when 
the  sunset  glory  is  supreme,  the  bare 
rock  throbs  and  palpitates  in  almost 
breathing  beauty.  On  one  late  afternoon, 
marked  forever  by  a  red  letter  in  the 
missal  of  the  year,  the  sky  was  as  a  shell, 
pink-tinted,  lustrous.  The  sea  snatched 
its  hues,  and  threw  them  back  in  shim- 
mering splendor.  The  great  cliff  shone 
in  glory ;  and  the  watcher,  poised  upon 
his  meagre  eyrie,  might  almost  forget 
the  ground  above  and  beneath,  and 
imagine  himself  some  happy  dweller  in 
the  air,  nourished  by  light  and  breath- 
ing only  color.  Following  this  heavenly 
way  along  the  curving  cliff,  the  traveler 
suddenly  turns  a  corner,  and  enters  the 
valley  itself.  At  first,  remembering  the 
stupendous  descriptions  hung  upon  its 
fame,  he  is  disappointed ;  but  gradually 
the  true  grandeur  of  the  rocky  waste 
insists  upon  its  own  significance.  A 
valley  of  some  extent,  flanked  by  hills 
and  to-day  traversed  by  a  road,  it  is 
green  with  bracken  and  sterile  under 
stone.  Everywhere  obtrudes  the  un- 
yielding rock,  in  bits  fit  for  a  giant's 
75 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

missile,  in  massive  and  uncouth  forma- 
tion, like  chaotic  dwellings.  Two  such 
rocky  citadels,  grotesque,  tremendous, 
attract  and  hold  the  eye.  These  are 
Castle  Rock  and  the  Devil's  Cheese-ring 
(the  latter  word,  according  to  some,  sig- 
nifying cheese-knife  or  scoop).  Tradition 
still  declares  that  in  this  eerie  spot  the 
witch,  Mabel  Durham,  or,  as  the  name 
was  corrupted.  Mother  Melldrum,  had 
her  abode,  or  possibly  her  rendezvous ; 
and  thither  came  John  Ridd  to  seek  her. 
Wise  Mother  Melldrum  !  She  knew  the 
full  value  of  scene-setting  and  accessories. 
Even  the  valiant  John  found  himself 
depressed  by  the  gloom  of  her  surround- 
ings, though  he  had  previously  consid- 
ered the  place  "  nothing  to  frighten 
anybody,  unless  he  had  lived  in  a  gal- 
lipot." His  nerves  were  as  the  bass 
string,  and  not  the  treble  ;  but  among  the 
suppliants  for  her  uncanny  aid  there 
must  have  been  those  who  here  quivered 
and  quaked  in  awe  of  the  sorcerer  Nature, 
if  not  the  human  witch. 

To  extend  one's  walk  along  the  valley 
and  through  the  hospitable  gate  of  Lee 
Abbey  is  to  turn  a  page  of  romantic  his- 
tory.    This  estate  was  some  time  the 
76 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  DOONES 

residence  of  the  De  Whichehalse  family, 
Flemish  refugees,  whose  line  ended  in 
revolt  against  the  English  crown.  One 
spot  in  the  grounds  furnishes  the  initial 
note  to  this  tragic  history,  —  a  cliff  over- 
hanging the  shore,  and  still  known  as 
Jennifred's  Leap.  Jennifred,  according 
to  the  story,  was  beloved  and  deserted 
by  Lord  Auberley ;  and,  like  Ophelia,  she 
could  not  survive  the  outrage  of  her 
maiden  dream.  One  night  she  wandered 
away  from  the  house,  and  next  morning 
had  not  returned.  Search  waxed  hot 
and  frantic ;  and  at  length  they  found 
her,  happily  dead,  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff 
where  she  had  cast  herself  in  heroic  de- 
spair. Her  father  sought  King  James  for 
justice  against  the  recreant  lover ;  but 
Auberley  stood  high  in  court  favor,  and 
the  royal  coward  declared  his  inability  to 
judge  between  them.  Then  came  Mon- 
mouth's Rebellion ;  and  De  Whiche- 
halse, burning  for  revenge,  repudiated 
the  royal  party,  and  sought  the  woman- 
slayer  in  the  ranks  of  its  army,  met  him 
face  to  face,  and  struck  him  dead.  The 
battle  of  Sedgemoor  followed  ;  and  De 
Whichehalse,  like  others  of  the  defeated, 
attempted  flight  to  Holland,  whereupon 
77 


BY  OAK   AND   THORN 

the  winds  swept  down  upon  him  and  the 
sea  rose,  quenching  his  stormy  life  and 
passions  forever.  But  the  lover  of  that 
ideal  which  is  forever  satisfying,  though 
the  actual  betray,  will  scarcely  waste 
thought  upon  this  righteous  maid-aven- 
ger. Rather  will  he  choose  to  smile  over 
the  memory  of  that  Marwood  de  Whiche- 
halse  who  kissed  pretty  Annie  at  the 
door,  and  in  payment  for  his  whistle  was 
so  sturdily  clouted  by  the  giant  John. 

When  John  Fry  and  his  valiant  little 
charge  made  their  way  across  Exmoor, 
from  Tiverton  to  Oare,  they  halted  at 
Dulverton  ;  and  there  it  was  that  the  im- 
mortal "  farm-hand  "  demanded  "  Hot 
mootton  pasty  for  twoo  trarv'lers,  at 
number  vaive,  in  vaive  minutes  !  "  The 
coach  road  from  Lynton  thither  is  char- 
acteristic and  satisfying ;  for  on  either 
side  lies  the  moor,  barren,  brown,  crack- 
ling with  coarse  grass  diversified  by 
patches  of  heather,  "the  green  of  bracken, 
the  red  of  whortleberry,"  and  tenanted, 
as  of  old,  by  ponies  and  red  deer.  It  is 
like  Dartmoor  as  one  sister  resembles  an- 
other, and  yet  strangely  individual  and 
different.  Dartmoor  is  broken  by  abrupt 
hills  and  gigantic  rocky  remains :  Ex- 
78 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  DOONES 

moor  sweeps  away  in  rolling  billows.  In 
the  deep  glens  at  the  foot  of  these  enor- 
mous earth-ridges  hasten  clear  streams 
of  varying  size,  but  all  swarming  with 
fish ;  for  the  moor  is  the  "  mother  of 
manie  rivers."  Over  the  sides  of  the 
ridges  themselves  trickle  swifter  rills,  in 
goyals  or  gullies,  to  join  the  torrent  be- 
low,—  in  winter  a  torrent,  indeed ;  for 
then  such  mountain  waters  throw  aside 
the  decorum  of  habit,  and  swollen  by  the 
early  rains  leap  forth,  destructive  and 
dauntless,  to  meet  the  sea.  But  in  the 
centre  of  the  great  tract,  peopled  every- 
where by  thousands  of  sheep,  lie  its 
monotony  and  dreariness  of  waste  moor- 
land. It  is  when  they  approach  the  sea 
that  the  great  downs  become  majestic 
and  truly  satisfying.  Then  they  drop 
suddenly  hundreds  of  feet,  cleft  perhaps 
by  a  romantic  fissure,  where  sweeps  some 
rushing  streamlet,  foam-fringed  and  vo- 
cal. Here  and  there  are  bogs,  but  alas 
for  the  partisan  who  would  fain  shudder 
over  the  bones  of  Carver  Doone  bleaching 
below  the  ooze  !  Not  one,  says,  a  cool  and 
unsympathetic  authority,  is  dangerous. 

"  It   always  rains  on   Exmoor,"   runs 
a   proverb ;    and    the    couplet    defining 
79 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

Dunkery's  barometric  qualification,  an- 
nounces with  the  eccentric  rhyming  of  a 
weather  distich,  — 

"  When  Dunkery's  top  cannot  be  seen, 
Homer  will  have  a  flooded  stream." 

Clouds  are  the  hourly  attendants  of  an 
Exmoor  sky  ;  but,  when  they  lower  on 
Dunkery,  then  the  rain  may  be  said  to 
have  given  official  warning  of  its  ap- 
proach. To  climb  this  beacon  hill  with- 
out a  guide  is  to  suffer  some  diminution 
of  spiritual  vainglory,  unless,  indeed,  the 
gods  go  with  you  every  step.  The  pleas- 
antest  footway  from  Porlock  leads 
through  the  valley  of  the  Horner,  where 
that  gurgling,  shouting,  utterly  irrespon- 
sible water  creature  goes  tumbling  along 
over  stone  and  shallow,  slapping  his 
sides,  joking,  singing,  waking  the  valley 
to  a  madness  of  mirth.  The  air  there  is 
dark  with  "  green  things  growing."  You 
can  scarcely  make  your  way  for  love  of 
the  thickening  leaves  on  either  hand. 
Everywhere  is  the  beauty  woven  out  of 
ferns  and  brawling  waters.  Crossing  the 
stream  is  by  a  foot-bridge  made  of  one 
timber  and  a  narrow  hand-rail.  Then 
you  begin  climbing,  and  perhaps  like  us 
find  yourself,  quite  out  of  breath  and  be- 
80 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  DOONES 

wildered,  in  an  upland  open,  apparently 
on  the  way  to  nowhere.  In  better 
company  than  the  king  of  France,  we 
marched  down  again,  mounted  another 
height  and  knew  only  that  Exmoor  was 
about  us  and  that  we  were  plainly  lost, 
I  have  little  remembrance  of  that  day, 
save  that  it  was  full  of  hot  sun  and 
winy  airs ;  that  somehow  the  sound  of 
an  axe  led  us  into  a  wood,  where  the 
chopper,  surprised  at  visitors  in  his  sleep- 
ing world,  directed  us  profusely.  All 
his  conflicting  testimony  ended  to  the 
tune  of :  "  and  that  will  be  Dunkery, 
and  you  '11  know  it  by  the  b'acon." 
Then,  obedient,  we  struck  into  a  way 
across  the  moor.  The  road  rose  and 
sank  with  the  billowing  hills.  A  little 
hamlet  glanced  out  now  and  then,  far 
away  in  a  dream.  The  sky  smiled  bril- 
liantly without  a  cloud,  and  scanning  it 
for  the  beacon,,  my  eyes  looked  always 
across  a  black  bar  where  the  bright 
horizon  line  had  struck  them.  The  hills 
were  alike,  delusive  in  their  sameness. 
At  length  one  waving  outline  seemed  to 
be  broken  by  a  knot,  a  flaw.  Surely  the 
beacon !  No  path  pointed  thither,  and 
we  struck  into  wild  land  where  the 
8z 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

heather  was  knee-deep,  husky  to  the  ear. 
When  one  of  us  lay  down  to  rest,  the 
warm  scrubby  growth  closed  over  her ; 
and  the  other,  looking  back,  saw  only 
the  sky,  the  rolling  slopes,  the  few  nib- 
bling sheep,  and  drank  of  wonder,  find- 
ing herself  alone  on  this  great  ball,  the 
earth.  The  soul  must  be  hide-bound 
indeed,  if  in  such  space  she  will  not 
grow. 

At  last  we  were  there,  —  on  Dunkery, 
with  her  distinguishing  cairn,  her  vantage 
over  purpling  wastes  and  love-looks  at 
the  ample  sky,  and  we  went  back  again 
through  the  heather.  There  were  seven 
hours  of  it  in  all  before  home  and  rest : 
seven  hours  without  food.  But  we  had 
eaten  the  air  and  thriven  mightily. 

From  Lynton  to  Simonsbath  (still  on 
the  way  to  Dulverton)  the  road  affords 
you  truly  typical  Exmoor  scenery,  — 
bare,  waste,  and  desolate.  This  is  the 
county  of  the  red  deer,  where  he  is  yet 
hunted  with  the  madness  of  enthusiasm 
described  by  Kingsley  and  Whyte-Mel- 
ville ;  and  the  knowing  tourist  will  scan 
the  far  sinuous  horizon  for  one  glimpse 
of  a  delicate  antlered  head.  Vain  desire ! 
He  is  lying  somewhere  in  covert,  de- 
82 


THE   HAUNT   OF  THE   DOONES 

veloping  his  tactics  for  the  next  meet. 
Then  perchance  he  will  slink  into  the 
lair  of  a  young  stag,  and  send  him  forth 
with  a  cruel  push  of  resistless  horns,  to 
draw  the  sportsman's  eye.  If  that  avail 
not,  he  will  seek  some  still  watercourse, 
and  there  cool  him  in  the  stream  before 
picking  his  dainty  way  over  moss  and 
pebble,  —  every  step  a  move  in  the  game 
of  outwitting  the  hounds,  his  enemies  to 
the  death.  But  lay  it  not  to  heart,  dear 
pilgrim,  if  the  only  four-footed  beasties 
you  find  on  Exmoor  are  ponies  cropping 
the  homely  herbage  :  the  deer  are  meat 
for  our  masters. 

Simonsbath  is  dignified  by  the  usual 
quota  of  legend,  though  it  happens  to 
be  of  a  rather  fragmentary  and  common- 
place nature.  The  name  is  taken,  says 
one  tale,  from  a  deep  pool  in  the  Barle, 
where  Simon,  an  Exmoor  outlaw  of  some 
unknown  period,  was  accustomed  to 
bathe.  Another  folk  tradition  connects 
it  with  King  Sigmund,  the  dragon-slayer. 
But  sufficient  be  it  for  us  to  remember, 
when  we  draw  up  in  front  of  the  William 
Rufus,  a  tavern  in  good  and  respectable 
standing  to-day  as  it  was  two  centuries 
ago,  that  this  was  the  scene  of  one  mar- 
83 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

velous  escape  ascribed  to  Tom  Faggus. 
Here  was  he  one  night  revehng  when 
the  authorities  suddenly  pounced  upon 
him,  —  only  to  be  outwitted,  however ; 
for  Tom  had  but  to  leap  on  his  half- 
human  strawberry  mare  and  ride  away. 
J.  LI.  W.  Page,  lover  of  the  moors  of 
Exe  and  Dart,  quotes,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  imaginative,  the  tradition  that  the 
bog  known  as  Claren  Rocks,  not  far 
from  Simonsbath,  was  the  instrument  of 
Carver  Doone's  tragic  ending ;  but,  as  he 
justly  adds,  a  certain  wet  patch  upon  the 
side  of  Dunkery  may,  with  equal  likeli- 
hood, receive  the  popular  vote.  As  in 
more  vital  matters,  doctors  disagree ; 
and  the  hoarder  of  such  uncertain  detail 
might  as  well  look  about  him,  within  the 
proper  radius,  and  fix  upon  any  bog  even 
approximately  answering  the  require- 
ments of  fancy.  The  verdict  has  been 
given,  the  case  dismissed :  circumstan- 
tial evidence  can  do  no  harm.  Beyond 
Simonsbath,  the  road  becomes  somewhat 
tame,  in  comparison  with  its  previous 
mood;  and  at  Dulverton  itself,  entered 
by  a  street  so  narrow  that  the  houses 
seem  inhospitably  to  elbow  the  passing 
coach,  tJiere  is  scanty  interest  for  anti- 
84 


THE   HAUNT  OF  THE   DOONES 

quary  and  for  "tripper."  You  may  climb 
the  hill  behind  the  church  and  overlook 
the  valley  of  the  Barle,  or  you  may  drive 
through  the  wooded  luxury  of  Earl  Car- 
narvon's park ;  but  it  must  be  confessed 
that  the  chief  glory  of  the  place  lies  now 
in  the  memory  of  John  Fry's  "  hot  moot- 
ton  pasty."  Not  far  away  are  the  Tor 
Steps,  near  which  Mother  Melldrum  set 
up  her  summer  residence.  A  rude  bridge 
made  of  stone  slabs,  placed  upon  piers 
and  guiltless  of  cement,  —  this,  it  seems, 
was  built  by  the  devil  for  his  own  ex- 
clusive use.  He  threatened  destruction 
to  the  first  living  creature  crossing  it, 
whereupon  the  parson,  who  was  amaz- 
ingly clever  in  those  days  at  outwitting 
the  fiend,  broke  the  spell  by  sending 
over  "a  harmless  necessary  cat."  Pussy 
was  torn  piecemeal ;  and  then  the  parson 
himself  crossed  in  safety,  billingsgating 
the  devil  as  he  went.  The  dialogue  on 
this  memorable  occasion  must  have  been 
of  the  tu  quoque  order,  inasmuch  as  the 
parson  was  called  a  "black  crow,"  and 
avenged  himself  for  the  indignity  offered 
his  garb  by  retorting  that  he  was  "no 
blacker  than  the  devil."  Shrewd  in  tac- 
tics, it  is  evident  that  this  good  gentle- 
8S 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

man  was  yet  a  dullard  at  repartee,  else 
would  he  have  chosen  some  more  biting 
rejoinder  than  "  You  're  another  !  " 

Let  no  one  contemplating  the  coach- 
ing trip  to  Dulverton  be  deceived  by 
the  announcement  that  the  Doone  Valley 
is  among  the  attractions  of  the  route; 
for  this  beguiling  statement  merely  indi- 
cates that  the  driver,  at  a  certain  stage 
of  the  trip,  will  point  vaguely  into  the 
purple  distance,  and  remark  that  the 
Doone  Valley  is  "  there."  The  greedy 
traveler,  however,  hardly  needs  to  be 
told  that  he  should  take  a  carriage  at 
Lynmouth,  and  make  a  canny  bargain 
for  a  drive  to  the  valley  itself,  —  prefer- 
ably by  the  Countisbury  Road,  to  return 
by  way  of  Watersmeet,  where  the  Combe 
Park  and  Farley  Waters  join  the  East 
Lyn  with  many  sparkles  of  delight  at 
the  meeting  and  much  pomp  of  fern- 
embroidered  garment.  (This,  however, 
applies  only  to  those  who,  like  the 
Queen  of  Spain,  have  no  legs.  A 
walker  will  make  it  a  day's  excursion, 
thanking  his  luck  for  the  chance.)  Up 
and  out  into  the  clear  air  of  heaven  leads 
the  Countisbury  Road,  skirting  the  very 
brow  of  sheer  cliffs  on  one  side,  and 
86 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE   DOONES 

smiled  on  by  Exmoor  from  the  inland 
distance.  The  blue  sea  and  the  shad- 
owy coast  of  Wales  are  the  wayfarer's 
treasure-trove.  Every  breath  is  exhil- 
arating, sweet,  instinct  with  beauty. 
Presently  the  road  inclines  downward 
and  toward  the  right ;  and  Devonshire 
is  left  behind  for  the  goodly  county  of 
Somerset,  claimant  also  for  the  parent- 
age of  the  redoubtable  John.  ("Zum- 
merzett  thou  bee'st,  Jan  Ridd,"  said  the 
popular  voice  on  that  side  the  line,  "  and 
Zummerzett  thou  shalt  be,")  And  be- 
fore reaching  the  goal  of  his  desire,  it 
shall  befall  the  traveler  to  seek  out  Oare 
church,  a  tiny  building  with  nave  and 
chancel  all  complete,  like  a  temple  of 
Lilliput  Land  ;  and  there  I  wish  him 
not  too  exhaustive  a  knowledge  of  what 
he  is  to  find.  For  I,  in  entering,  expected 
merely  to  drink  from  the  cup  of  sweet 
memories,  reflecting,  "  Here  stood  John 
with  his  Lorna  when  Carver's  shot  came 
crashing  in,  charged  with  death  to  one 
and  madness  for  her  lover ; "  but  pure 
surprise  chased  such  sentimental  mus- 
ing from  the  field.  Stepping  within 
the  nave,  the  previously  uninstructed  is 
amazed  at  certain  tablets  on  the  north 
87 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

wall ;  for  these  perpetuate  the  memory 
of  the  Snowe  family,  to  which  Black- 
more  has  vouchsafed  a  long-lasting  ten- 
ure of  life,  and  one  of  them  is  even 
adorned  by  the  name  of  Farmer  Nicholas 
himself,  though  of  another  generation 
than  John's  old  neighbor.  The  Snowes, 
so  saith  the  chronicler,  are  worthy  yeo- 
men who  have  held  land  in  this  region 
since  the  days  of  Alfred  ;  and  this  en- 
during brass  doth  so  plainly  resurrect 
them  before  the  eye  that  one  is  tempted 
to  subscribe  then  and  there  to  a  sober 
belief  in  all  Blackmore's  broidery  of  fact, 
asserting,  "  The  bricks  are  alive  at  this 
day  to  testify  it." 

Beyond  Oare,  the  road  is  less  diver- 
sified ;  and  at  Malmsmead,  a  collection 
of  two  or  three  houses  devoted,  as  by 
an  irrevocable  vow,  to  the  upholding  of 
Doone  legends,  you  may  take  an  Exmoor 
pony  and  ride  along  a  sweetly  sylvan 
path  into  the  true  valley.  And  here,  at 
whatever  season  you  go,  so  that  green 
boughs  be  welcoming,  it  shall  seem  "  the 
boyhood  of  the  year ;"  for  everywhere  is 
budding  or  expanded  growth,  under  dap- 
pling of  shadow  and  flickering  of  light. 
After  Blackmore's  paean,  all  that  one  can 
88 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  DOONES 

say  of  the  Doone  Valley  rings  of  bathos, 
the  more  lukewarm  in  proportion  to  its 
truth.  For  here,  indeed,  is  the  water- 
slide,  a  rocky  incline  covered  by  a  thin 
streamlet,  amicably  flowing  to  meet  the 
Bagworthy  Water  ;  but  it  is  by  no  means 
a  way  perilous,  and  its  ascent  need  not 
have  tired  little  John's  stout  muscles 
so  sorely.  The  valley  itself,  broken  by 
the  desolate  foundations  of  a  few  tiny 
huts,  is  hemmed  in  by  moorland  hills  ; 
but,  compared  with  a  score  of  Exmoor's 
chasms  and  retreats,  it  is  as  Leah  to 
Rachel.  We  are  in  the  home  of  the 
Doones  ;  and  very  fair  it  is,  with  the 
summer  sky  above  us  and  the  whispering 
leaves  at  hand.  But  the  magic  picture 
of  our  search  we  shall  by  no  means  find, 
save  between  the  covers  of  Blackmore's 
book  wonderful.  Learn,  however,  the 
sequel :  forget  not  the  epilogue  !  For, 
when  one  has  turned  his  back  on  this 
disappointing  spot  and  taken  his  home- 
ward road,  he  cannot  forbear  exclama- 
tion, at  more  points  than  one,  over  the 
actual  valley  of  his  dreams.  For  the 
reality  of  that  word-picture  exists,  though 
not  where  tradition  has  placed  it.  Here 
are  steep  inclines,  hundreds  of  feet  high, 
89 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

down  which  even  the  anguished  red  deer 
dare  not  hurl  himself  in  his  extremity 
of  flight.  Here  are  inaccessible  gullies, 
foaming  water,  and  fern -clad  hollow. 
And  thus  it  is  that  he  who  truly  seeks 
will  find,  even  though  the  prize  be  long 
deferred. 

There  are  few  places  in  whose  records 
I  take  more  delight  than  in  those  of 
Tiverton  and  her  Blundell  School.  Who 
that  has  the  heart  of  youth  does  not  re- 
call, with  a  responsive  thrill,  John  Ridd's 
tale  of  the  Blundell  boys'  heaven-sent 
holiday  ?  For  "  in  the  very  front  of  the 
gate,  just  without  the  archway,  where  the 
ground  is  paved  most  handsomely,  you 
may  see  in  copy-letters  done  a  great 
P.  B.  of  white  pebbles.  Now  it  is  the 
custom  and  the  law  that,  when  the  in- 
vading waters,  either  fluxing  along  the 
wall  from  below  the  road-bridge  or  pour- 
ing sharply  across  the  meadows  from 
a  cut  called  '  Owen's  ditch,'  —  and  I 
myself  have  seen  it  come  both  ways,  — 
upon  the  very  instant  when  the  waxing 
element  lips  though  it  be  but  a  single 
pebble  of  the  founder's  letters,  it  is  in 
the  license  of  any  boy,  so  ever  small  and 
undoctrined,  to  rush  into  the  great 
90 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  DOONES 

school-rooms,  where  a  score  of  masters 
sit  heavily,  and  scream  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  *  P.  B.  ! ' 

"  Then,  with  a  yell,  the  boys  leap  up  or 
break  away  from  their  standing.  They 
toss  their  caps  to  the  black-beamed  roof, 
and  haply  the  very  books  after  them  ; 
and  the  great  boys  vex  no  more  the  small 
ones,  and  the  small  boys  stick  up  to  the 
great  ones.  One  with  another,  hard  they 
go,  to  see  the  gain  of  the  waters,  .  .  . 
and  are  prone  to  kick  the  day-boys  out, 
with  words  of  scanty  compliment.  Then 
the  masters  look  at  one  another,  hav- 
ing no  class  to  look  to,  and  (boys  being 
no  more  left  to  watch)  in  a  manner  they 
put  their  mouths  up.  With  a  spirited 
bang  they  close  their  books,  and  make 
invitation,  the  one  to  the  other,  for  pipes 
and  foreign  cordials,  recommending  the 
chance  of  the  time  and  the  comfort  away 
from  cold  water." 

Peter  Blundell,  the  founder  of  the 
school,  was,  according  to  good  John 
Prince,  "at  first  a  very  Poor  Lad  of  Tiv- 
erton ;  who,  for  a  little  Support,  went 
Errands  for  the  Carriers  that  came  to 
that  Town,  and  was  Tractable  in  looking 
after  their  Horses  and  doing  little  Ser- 
91 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

vices  for  them,  as  they  gave  him  Orders. 
By  degrees,  in  such  means,  he  got  a 
little  Money,  of  which  he  was  very  Provi- 
dent and  Careful ;  and  bought  therewith 
a  kersey,  which  a  Carrier  was  so  kind  as 
to  carry  to  London,  gratis,  and  to  make 
him  the  Advantage  of  the  Return.  Hav- 
ing done  so  for  some  time,  he  at  length 
got  kersies  enough  to  Lade  an  Horse, 
and  went  up  to  London  with  it  humbly : 
Where  being  found  very  Diligent  and 
Industrious,  he  was  received  into  good 
Imployment  by  those  who  managed  there 
the  Kersey  Trade  (for  which  Tiverton 
was  then  very  famous),  and  he  continued 
therein,  until  he  was  Rich  enough  to  set 
up  the  Calling  of  making  Kersies  for 
himself.  ...  He  came  at  last  to  a  vast 
and  large  Estate ;  whereby  he  was  en- 
abled to  do  such  noble  Benefactions,  and 
bestow  such  large  Legacies  as  he  did." 

The  school  itself  is  painstakingly  de- 
scribed by  this  ever-delightful  chronicler : 

"This  House  stands  at  the  East  end 
of  the  Town,  a  very  tall  and  spacious 
Structure,  built  something  like  the  Col- 
lege-Halls in  the  Universities,  with  a  fair 
Cupulo  in  the  middle.  The  Pile  contains 
one  School  for  the  Master,  and  another 
92 


THE   HAUNT   OF  THE   DOONES 

for  the  Usher,  only  an  entry  between 
them ;  both,  by  his  Direction,  One  hun- 
dred Foot  long,  and  four  and  twenty 
broad ;  well  wainscoted  and  Boarded. 
Close  adjoyning  to  which,  is  a  very  large 
House  for  the  Master,  and  another  con- 
venient one  for  the  Usher :  with  very 
good  Orchards,  Gardens,  and  Out-Lots, 
belonging  to  it. 

"Before  the  School-House  is  a  large 
spacious  Green-Court,  in  Figure  a  Quad- 
rangle, in  Continent  one  Acre  of  Ground, 
at  the  enterance  in  from  the  Street.  All 
enclosed  with  an  high  and  stately  Wall, 
coped  with  yellow  Purbeck-Stone,  very 
handsome  to  behold.  It  hath  a  fair  Gate 
at  the  Entry  into  it,  over  which  is  this 
Inscription,  cut  in  Stone,  now  rendered 
by  Time  and  Weather  almost  illegible. 

"  *  This  Free  Grammar-School  was 
Founded  at  the  only  Cost  and  Charge 
of  Mr.  Peter  Blundell  of  this  Town,  some 
times  Clothier.' " 

Outwardly,  alas!  the  Blundell's  of 
"Loma  Doone"  is  no  more.  In  1880 
new  buildings  were  erected,  nearly  a  mile 
away,  and  the  old  ones,  sold  under  certain 
conditions,  were  converted  into  dwelling- 
houses.  Thus  it  is  that  Tiverton  is 
93 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

sadly  disappointing  to  a  visitor  weak  in 
the  memory.  These  facts  I  knew,  but 
somehow  they  slipped  my  mind,  as  pins 
run  into  cracks,  and  when  I  passed  that 
"  high  and  stately  Wall,"  on  my  way  from 
the  station,  I  smiled  at  the  "  fair  Gate  " 
leading  therein,  and  was  content,  know- 
ing how  securely  tradition  rested  there 
and  would  rest.  But  next  day's  sun, 
according  to  immemorial  right,  dispelled 
my  fancy.  I  might  peep  within  at  walls 
and  velvet  sward,  but  the  spirit  of  old 
Blundell's  had  fled.  I  lingered,  scowling 
at  the  spirit  of  change,  and  then  took  my 
dusty  way  up  the  hill,  to  glare  at  the 
prosperous  modern  buildings  of  new  old 
Blundell's  and  greet  the  transplanted 
P.  B.  loyally  holding  place  at  the  entrance 
gates. 

"  Never  again,  I  fear,"  writes  a  master 
of  the  school,  "can  the  waters  of  the 
Lowman  hope  to  cover  these  honored 
initials,  —  at  least,  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  things  ;  and  I  can  hardly  contemplate 
the  possibility  that  the  '  license  of  any 
boy'  should  extend  to  the  length  of 
'rushing  into  the  school-room,  crying  P. 
B.'  Such  a  course  of  action  would  not 
recommend  itself  to  any  Blundellian  of 
94 


THE   HAUNT  OF  THE   DOONES 

the  present  day  as  likely  to  obtain  a  holi- 
day for  the  school.  This  luxury  is  rarely 
granted  nowadays." 

Readers  of  Blackmore,  himself  a  Blun- 
dellian,  will  remember  his  account  of  the 
perpetual  feuds  between  boarders  and 
day-boys :  — 

"For  it  had  been  long  fixed  among 
us,  who  were  of  the  house  and  cham- 
bers, that  these  same  day-boys  were  all 
'caddes,'  as  we  had  discovered  to  call 
it,  because  they  paid  no  groat  for  their 
schooling  and  brought  their  own  com- 
mons with  them.  In  consumption  of 
these  we  would  help  them,  for  our  fare 
in  hall  fed  appetite ;  and,  while  we  ate 
their  victuals,  we  allowed  them  freely  to 
talk  to  us.  Nevertheless,  we  could  not 
feel,  when  all  the  victuals  were  gone,  but 
that  these  boys  required  kicking  from 
the  premises  of  Blundell." 

But  at  length  did  "the  whirligig  of 
time,"  consonant  to  eternal  word,  "  bring 
in  his  revenges."  For  in  1846,  accord- 
ing to  F.  H.  Snell,  a  former  Blundell 
scholar  at  Oxford,  a  dispute,  which  had 
long  been  pending  between  the  Feoffees 
of  the  school  and  the  inhabitants  of  Tiv- 
erton, terminated  in  the  victory  of  the 
95 


BY   OAK  AND  THORN 

latter.  These  worthy  citizens  complained 
that,  whereas  the  Blundell  benefaction 
had  been  intended  primarily  for  Tiver- 
ton boys,  its  privileges  were  eaten  up  by 
boarders,  who  not  only  absorbed  most  of 
the  scholarship  fund,  but  despised  and 
harried  the  native  students  (or  "  cads ! "). 
Proceedings  ran  a  long  and  tortuous 
course;  but  the  final  decision  given  by 
the  Vice-Chancellor  was  that  "neither 
the  Master  nor  the  Usher  of  the  said 
School  ought  to  receive  any  payments 
from  or  in  respect  of  any  of  the  boys 
educated  in  the  said  School,  or  ought 
to  take  any  boarder ;  and  that  none  but 
boys  educated  as  Free  Scholars,  videli- 
cet,  Scholars  free  of  expense  in  the  said 
School,  .  .  .  ought  to  be  eligible  to  the 
said  Scholarships  and  Exhibitions, ' '  Then 
followed  a  dreary  period  ;  for  the  imme- 
diate effect  of  the  decree  had  been  to 
sweep  away  at  least  half  the  number  of 
pupils,  and  the  provisions  for  teaching 
the  remainder  were  by  no  means  satis- 
factory. However,  matters  slowly  read- 
justed themselves  ;  and  at  the  present 
writing,  Blundell' s  boasts  a  goodly  roll  of 
boarders  and  day  scholars,  who,  if  they 
do  loyally  continue  the  ancient  feud, 
96 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  DOONES 

doubtless  proceed  in  the  scientific  fashion 
observed  by  John  Ridd  and  Robin  Snell. 

Tiverton  herself  is  all  lovable  in  her 
assured  and  not  too  flaunting  prosperity, 
and  the  spirit  of  her  people  is  worthy  of 
the  county ;  for  nowhere  in  England  do 
you  find  truer  and  more  unfailing  courtesy 
than  in  Devon.  It  was  in  Tiverton  that 
one  short  day  gave  me  a  round  of  social  de- 
lights, chiefly  at  almshouses,  where  dear 
old  women  potter  about  their  tiny  quar- 
ters in  a  flutter  of  hospitality,  bringing 
out  their  last  treasures  of  china  for  your 
sake  —  ancient  teapots  and  copper-lustre 
half-pints  which  they  lingeringly  agree  to 
sell,  but  with  such  evident  agony  of  soul 
that  you  incontinently  refuse  the  bargain 
and  flee  from  temptation.  Yet  it  is  to  be 
hoped  that  here  the  nimble  shilling  leaps 
from  your  purse  into  some  eager,  wrin- 
kled hand  ;  for  a  shilling  buys  much  tea. 

The  White  Horse  Inn,  where  "girt 
Jan  "  rested  after  his  victory  over  Robin, 
still  exists  in  Gold  Street,  but  inevitable 
joy  thereat  is  tempered  by  the  fact  that 
the  "  souls  of  John  and  Joan  Greenway," 
mentioned  tenderly  by  Blackmore,  could 
scarcely  have  found  there  a  congenial 
resting-place ;  for  they  have  long  since 
97 


BY  OAK   AND   THORN 

disappeared.  They  may,  however,  be 
heard  of  across  the  road,  at  Greenway's 
Chapel  or  Almshouses,  which  are  still  in 
being,  and  have  not  been  diverted  from 
their  original  uses. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  more  pathetic 
record  contained  in  those  letters  graven 
by  men  who  would  fain  assure  to  them- 
selves a  brief  immortality  than  that  set 
down  by  John  and  Joan  Greenway,  who 
seemed  strangely  timorous  as  to  their 
reception  in  the  next  world  and  extrava- 
gantly desirous  of  establishing  some  sort 
of  lien  on  the  kindly  feeling  of  this.  John 
Greenway,  though  "  of  mean  parentage," 
grew  "vastly  Rich,"  and  in  the  early 
part  of  the  sixteenth  century  founded  an 
almshouse  for  a  limited  number  of  poor 
men,  endowing  them  with  a  small  weekly 
revenue.  He  added  a  chapel  to  the 
church ;  and  there,  according  to  Prince, 
"  in  a  spacious  Vault,  .  .  .  under  a  large 
Stone,  lieth  this  John  Greenway  and  his 
Wife  Joan ;  on  which  the  Figures  of  them 
both,  curiously  done  in  Brass,  are  fixed : 
round  the  Edges  goes  a  Fillet  of  Brass, 
having  their  Epitaph  engraven  on  it,  in 
old  Characters,  now  partly  obliterated: 
what  remains  legible  here  follows :  — 
98 


THE   HAUNT  OF  THE  DOONES 

" '  Of  your  Charite  prey  for  the  Souls 

of  John  and  Joan  Greenway  his  Wife 

which  Died  .  .  .  and  for  their 

Faders  and  Moders,  and  for  their  Friends 

and  their  Lovers.     On  them  Jesu 

have  Mercy.     Amen.' 

"  Out  of  the  mouth  of  John  Greenway 
proceeds  a  Label  of  Brass,  on  which  are 
these  Words, 

"  '  O  !  then  to  thee  we  pray, 

Have  mercy  of  John  Greenway.' " 

His  wife  had,  in  her  own  name,  the 
benefit  of  the  same  pious  wish.  And, 
though  these  labels  have  long  since  been 
torn  away,  the  chapel,  even  after  sad 
experience  of  the  vandalism  known  as 
restoration,  bears  continually  reiterated 
petitions  for  John  Greenway's  heavenly 
welfare,  and  that  of  his  spouse.  On  the 
exterior  are  inscribed  the  mottoes  :  — 

"  God  sped  J.  G." 

"  Of  your  charitie  pray  for  the  Souls 
of  John  Greenway  and  his  wife." 

"  Oh  Lord  all  way  grant  to  John 
Grenway  good  fotue  and  grace 
and  In  heaven  a  place !  " 
99 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

Everywhere  was  repeated  that  pathetic 
injunction,  like  a  cry  from  some  far  and 
solitary  land :  —  "  Pray  for  John  Green- 
way  ! "  Alas,  poor  ghost !  Did  he  find 
this  earth  and  his  foothold  at  Tiverton 
too  goodly  to  be  relinquished,  or  was  he 
by  nature  a  distrustful  soul,  who  shrank 
from  those  new  worlds  which  the  poorest 
of  us  must  conquer  ?  Is  he,  indeed,  at 
rest,  or  doth  his  immortal  part  still  pro- 
test against  its  progress  to  another  star  ? 
Pray  for  his  soul ! 

And  in  this  relic-hunting  of  the  Doones, 
what  must  be  the  conclusion  of  the  whole 
matter?  That  a  band  of  outlaws  two 
hundred  years  ago  built  their  huts  in  an 
isolated  valley,  and  lived  there  a  life  of 
rapine  and  shame ;  that  John  Ridd,  the 
champion  wrestler  and  eater  of  beef,  is 
hotly  believed  in  by  the  sons  of  Devon, 
to  whom  legend  has  been  handed  down 
like  family  jewels ;  and  that  Tom  Faggus 
and  his  strawberry  mare,  and  even  Betty 
Muxworthy,  are  articles  of  local  faith. 
But  what  are  these  but  the  dry  bones  of 
belief?  Supreme  and  vital  walks  the 
glowing  truth  that  a  beautiful  book  was 
bom  of  their  ashes,  and  that  its  fame 
shall  be  ever-living, 

100 


THE  LAND  OF  ARTHUR 

All  over  England  are  scattered  the 
footprints  of  King  Arthur,  legendary 
hero  and  crown  of  chivalry.  His  prowess 
is  chanted  by  mountain  streamlets,  and 
lowland  rushes  whisper  his  name.  Corn- 
wall wears  the  renown  of  his  birth,  and 
most  appropriately ;  for  it  is  the  county 
of  giants  and  fairies,  of  saint  and  mythic 
hero.  To  this  day,  it  has  preserved  more 
of  its  old-time  character  than  any  other 
corner  in  England;  and  the  traveler 
need  spur  his  imagination  but  slightly  to 
feel,  on  entering  its  borders,  that  he  has 
reached  the  land  of  ancient  custom  and 
romance.  Varied  and  seemingly  inex- 
haustible are  its  antiquities.  Here  are  bar- 
rows, cromlechs,  stone-rings,  and  ruined 
fortifications,  to  occupy  the  speculations 
of  Dryasdust.  Neither  need  the  roman- 
tic wanderer  depart  unfed,  for  in  this 
still,  secluded  spot  awaiteth  him  many 
a  delightsome  morsel.  By  night,  he 
may  hear  the  wailing  of  Tregeagle,  spirit 
haunted  by  demons,  and  doomed  to  ex- 

lOI 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  Or  CALIFOR 
RIVERSIDE 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

piate  a  wicked  life  by  perpetual  toil  at 
impossible  tasks ;  or  he  may  steep  his 
soul  in  that  solace  which  is  a  sort  of  in- 
tellectual nicotine  by  turning  the  pages 
of  legend,  from  the  story  of  the  Giant 
Cormoran  to  that  of  Britain's  hero-king. 
Cornwall,  like  most  regions  diversified 
by  a  huge  and  rocky  formation,  was  once, 
according  to  the  popular  belief,  overrun 
with  giants,  from  whom  it  was  delivered 
by  that  noble  Jack,  son  of  a  wealthy 
farmer  near  Land's  End,  who  first  earned 
his  sobriquet  of  "  Giant  Killer  "  by  slay- 
ing the  terrible  Cormoran,  builder  and 
lord  of  Saint  Michael's  Mount.  In  Corn- 
wall lived  also  the  Giant  Bolster.  He 
made  nothing  of  compassing  six  miles 
at  a  stride,  and  yet  was  overtaken  by 
fate  in  the  person  of  Saint  Agnes,  whom 
he  so  persecuted  with  offers  of  affection 
that  she  was  compelled,  in  self-defense, 
to  entrap  him  into  an  amiable  suicide. 
All  over  the  duchy  are  scattered  names 
recalling  that  age  of  wonder.  There  are 
giants'  cradles,  graves,  pulpits,  spoons, 
and  bowls ;  and  though  one  legend  de- 
clares that  the  devil  dare  not  enter  Corn- 
wall for  fear  of  being  made  into  a  pie 
(for  at  least  three  hundred  varieties  of 

I02 


THE  LAND   OF  ARTHUR 

pasty  have  flourished  at  one  time  or  an- 
other on  the  west  Tamar  side),  still  he 
has  served  as  sponsor  for  many  a  natural 
oddity.  Indeed,  as  one  antiquary  de- 
clares, in  the  eastern  part  of  Cornwall 
every  phenomenon  out  of  the  common 
course  is  referred  to  King  Arthur ;  in 
the  west,  to  giants  or  the  devil.  The 
subject  of  Cornish  pies,  however,  is  one 
which  is  not  to  be  lightly  dismissed. 
The  most  casual  consideration  of  it  puts 
forever  to  flight  certain  dogmatic  asser- 
tions regarding  the  lack  of  variety  in 
English  cooking.  Cornwall  has  pies  of 
beef,  duck,  and  conger-eel,  lammy  pies, 
concocted  of  the  succulent  kid  :  and,  as 
hath  been  said,  star-gazing  pies,  made 
of  pilchards.  In  short,  their  name  is 
that  of  a  legion  alarming  to  the  con- 
servative foreigner.  Only  a  temperate 
mind  may  choose  among  such  pretty 
dishes  "to  set  before  the  king."  To- 
day, pilchard  fishing  is  the  great  indus- 
try of  the  coast,  furnishing  a  wealth  not 
to  be  despised  beside  that  which  once 
lay  in  tin  and  copper.  The  local  tin 
mines  are  almost  exhausted,  —  scarcely 
a  subject  for  wonder  when  we  consider 
that  before  the  Christian  era  they  were 
103 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

supplying  Greek,  Roman,  and  Phoenician 
merchants  with  metal  loaded  at  the  port 
Iktis,  now  Saint  Michael's  Mount.  This, 
therefore,  is  an  old,  old  civilization  ;  and 
here,  to  a  very  late  date,  have  been  pre- 
served the  customs  of  a  sparsely  chron- 
icled time.  Droll-tellers,  a  species  of 
wandering  minstrel,  went  formerly  from 
house  to  house,  gladly  welcomed  and 
hospitably  entertained,  to  sing  folk  bal- 
lads and  repeat  old  tales.  Even  as  late 
as  the  first  part  of  the  present  century 
two  such  venders  of  "drolls,"  or  tales  of 
marvel  and  delight,  were  still  alive.  This 
was  a  quaint  and  simple  people,  albeit 
somewhat  chary  of  communicating  its 
old-time  legends  to  alien  folk.  The  terms 
"uncle"  and  "aunt  "were  freely  inter- 
changed among  them  in  token  of  respect 
and  affection ;  and  thus  did  the  Virgin 
Mary  come  to  be  tenderly  spoken  of  as 
Modryb  Mary  a,  "Aunt  Mary."  One 
subject,  however,  to  this  day  rouses 
them  to  wrath,  —  the  comparison  of  their 
clotted  cream  with  the  cream  of  Devon. 
"Ah,  you  can't  make  Cornish  cream 
anywhere  else ! "  said  a  wise  old  woman. 
"It  takes  Cornish  cows."  That  I  firmly 
believe ;  and  yet,  when  in  Devonshire,  I 
104 


THE  LAND   OF  ARTHUR 

am  convinced  of  the  paramount  excel- 
lence of  Devonshire  cows.  There  is  no 
such  cream  as  the  Cornish  cream  save 
in  Devonshire,  and  none  like  the  Devon 
cream  except  in  Cornwall. 

The  coast  of  Cornwall  is  rock-bound, 
full  of  terrible  crags,  of  sounding  caves, 
and  beaten  upon  by  mighty  surges.  Yet, 
inland  from  its  rocky  strongholds,  how 
the  earth  smiles  in  leaf  and  bloom !  In 
its  valleys,  on  the  south  coast,  blossoms 
a  tropical  wealth  of  flowers,  quite  amaz- 
ing in  a  country  of  England's  latitude. 
Fuchsias,  roof-high,  adorn  the  cottage 
fronts  ;  scarlet  geraniums  and  roses  clam- 
ber to  their  very  eaves.  Near  the  Lizard 
grows  the  wonderful  Cornish  heath, 
found  nowhere  else  but  in  Portugal, — 
delicate  and  gracious  sojourner  from  a 
warmer  clime.  In  the  sweet  freshness 
of  the  sea  winds  every  petal  assumes  a 
brilliancy  of  tint  unknown  farther  inland. 
The  heather  is  rosier,  the  gorse  has  a 
more  golden  glow,  foxgloves  are  reddened 
by  a  lustier  current.  Over  the  headlands, 
to  the  very  beginning  of  their  rocky  de- 
fenses, grows  the  pink  thrift,  and,  paint- 
ing the  rocks  themselves,  creeps  a  golden 
lichen.  Its  domestic  features  have  a 
105 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

character  all  their  own.  Tiny  stone 
cottages,  whitewashed  and  roofed  with 
slate,  stand  in  clustering  sociability,  each 
little  hamlet  with  its  gray  stone  church, 
crouching  low  to  avoid  the  winds,  and 
with  a  square  tower  often  high  enough 
for  a  beacon.  Many  a  village  is  under 
saintly  patronage,  like  Saint  Ives,  Saint 
Sennen,  or  Saint  Just.  Saints  were  plen- 
tiful here  ;  and,  indeed,  one  authority  de- 
clares that  in  the  Cornish  folk-lore  it  is 
difficult  to  distinguish  their  deeds  from 
those  of  the  giants. 

In  seeking  this  land  of  eld,  my  first 
thought  was  of  that  heroic  king  —  giant 
among  his  contemporaries  —  who  set  his 
seal  upon  the  sixth  century,  and  whose 
name  has  passed  into  the  literature  of 
France  and  Italy,  to  creep  back  from  the 
former  into  his  own  land  by  means  of 
Sir  Thomas  Malory's  pen  and  Caxton's 
press. 

A  public  coach  furnishes  conveyance 
from  Newquay  to  Tintagel,  by  way  of 
Boscastle,  a  little  town  rich  in  a  store  of 
antiquarian  memories,  and  adorned  by 
fine  headlands  and  a  quaint  harbor,  cer- 
tain to  delight  the  artistic  eye.  To  those 
unfamiliar  with  the  face  of  this  particular 
1 06 


THE  LAND  OF  ARTHUR 

region,  the  road  reads  a  pleasing  pre- 
lude to  the  peculiar  beauties  of  Cornwall. 
It  is  monotonous  compared  with  certain 
drives  along  the  Devon  coast ;  yet  its 
quiet  charm  is  such  as  one  would  be 
loath  to  miss.  This  is  a  country  of  ridgy, 
wind-swept  hills,  garnished  by  a  scanty 
tree  growth,  and  looking  down  into 
sweet  valleys,  where,  especially  in  the 
south,  lies  all  its  luxuriance  of  growth 
and  bloom.  The  Cornish  hedges  are  lit- 
erally banks,  made  of  earth  and  stone, 
some  of  them  ten  feet  high,  and  often 
with  a  surface  of  two  feet  at  the  top, 
either  planted  with  shrubs  or  left  bare  for 
a  footpath.  In  this  cementing  earth  has 
taken  root  all  manner  of  creeping  things 
and  blossoming  life.  Besides  the  may 
and  honeysuckle,  I  have  gathered  pim- 
pernel, a  royal  yellow  trefoil,  thyme,  and 
foxglove  from  their  crannies ;  but  chiefly 
are  they  overspread  with  a  rich  mantle 
of  heath.  On  that  day  when  we  drove  to 
Tintagel,  perhaps  over  the  ground  where 
Iseult  rode,  with  hawk  on  wrist,  or  Tris- 
tram carolled,  —  sad  of  name,  but  gay  in 
Gallic  grace,  —  the  sky  was  full  of  windy 
clouds  and  the  air  passing  chill.  Yet  the 
whole  landscape  was  lightened  and  glo- 
107 


BY  OAK  AND   THORN 

rifled  by  these  hedges  of  rose -purple 
heather,  like  broad,  rich  lines  of  crimson 
laid  on  by  a  daring  and  prodigal  brush. 
Past  quarries  and  great  refuse-heaps  of 
slate  the  road  leads  down  and  then  up 
again  into  the  little  town  of  Tintagel, 
or  Trevena,  where  stood  twin  castles  on 
headland  and  promontory,  scene  of  the 
siege  of  Gorlois,  Duke  of  Tintagel,  by 
Uther  Pendragon,  and  undoubtedly  the 
place  of  Arthur's  birth.  Gorlois,  with 
his  wife,  the  fair  Igraine,  had  visited 
the  court ;  and  there  King  Uther  turned 
on  the  lady  such  eyes  of  favor  that  she 
besought  her  husband  to  take  her  home 
to  Cornwall.  Vain  flight !  for  Uther 
Pendragon  followed,  killed  the  duke,  and 
wedded  the  lady.  From  the  little  village 
of  Trevena  a  path  winds  seaward,  where 
a  bold  promontory  juts  out  into  the  deep. 
This  was  once  connected  with  the  main- 
land by  a  drawbridge  ;  and  twin  fortifl- 
cations  stood  on  either  side,  hand  thus 
clasped  in  hand,  until  the  falling  of  a 
crag  had  made  the  promontory  into  an 
island.  It  may  be  reached,  however,  by 
a  little  bridge,  and  over  a  seemingly  per- 
ilous way,  from  stone  to  stone,  to  a  steep 
and  winding  path  over  the  very  face  of 
1 08 


THE   LAND   OF  ARTHUR 

the  cliff.  Midway,  the  climber  is  con- 
fronted by  a  heavy  wooden  door;  but, 
when  this  swings  back,  obedient  to  the 
key  with  which  he  is  entrusted,  he  en- 
ters what  was  undoubtedly  an  actual  Brit- 
ish stronghold,  if  not  that  of  Tintagel's 
duke.  Within,  flocks  of  sheep  are  peace- 
fully feeding  among  the  huge,  disordered 
blocks  of  stone,  once  firm  in  towered 
strength  above  the  changing  tide.  Here 
are  the  foundations  of  chapel  and  castle, 
a  possible  altar-stone,  and  the  signs  of 
a  burial-place.  Tintagel's  coast  is  grim 
and  rough  as  mountain  fastnesses.  Out 
into  the  sea  stride  its  rocks  like  con- 
quering giants,  and  the  sea  dashes  at 
them,  disdainful,  mighty,  but  helpless. 
How  must  Igraine  have  trembled  when, 
shut  up  for  safety  while  her  lord  occu- 
pied the  castle  of  Terrabil,  she  heard 
the  waves  moan  and  the  wind  howl,  and 
knew  —  for  in  that  childlike  age  such 
things  were  known  —  that  destiny  had 
her  in  toils  from  which  there  was  no  es- 
caping !  A  little  cove,  or  landing-place, 
makes  its  way  between  the  two  head- 
lands ;  and  here  perhaps  the  babe  Arthur 
was  washed  up  to  the  hands  of  Merlin. 
Or,  if  that  tale  be  but  idly  told,  Arthur 
109 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

was  assuredly  born  of  Igraine  in  that 
very  castle,  and  delivered  into  the  charge 
of  Sir  Ector,  waiting  for  him  outside  the 
postern  gate,  according  to  the  compact 
made  by  the  king  with  the  magician, 
when  Merlin  procured  Uther  Pendragon 
access  to  Igraine's  favor.  At  Tintagel 
dwelt  also  those  unhappy  lovers,  play- 
things of  an  unswerving  fate,  Tristram 
and  Iseult.  Tristram  was  nephew  of 
Mark,  King  of  Cornwall.  He  had  been 
educated  in  Brittany,  and  brought  thence 
the  embroidery  of  manner  for  which 
France  has  ever  been  a  nursery.  Mark's 
ambassador  to  bring  home  the  fair 
Iseult  for  her  crowning,  knight  and  lady, 
through  the  craft  of  Iseult's  maid,  drank 
a  potent  love-philter,  and  thenceforward 
loved  deathlessly,  and  to  their  own  un- 
doing. Here  did  Iseult  pine  and  suffer 
after  their  separation,  until  Tristram, 
wedded  in  Brittany  to  Iseult  of  the 
White  Hands,  sent  for  her,  in  his  mor- 
tal illness,  to  shrive  him  from  sorrow 
with  her  kiss.  Over  these  waves  she 
sailed  ;  and  there  in  Brittany,  with  her 
tristful  lover,  she  died. 

To  catch  the  spirit  of  this  place,  one 
must  linger  long  in  it,  feeding  his  eye 


THE  LAND   OF  ARTHUR 

with  the  changeful  beauty  of  the  sea, 
and  pondering  on  the  rocky  might  of 
the  unyielding  shore.  It  is  a  coast 
whose  fist  of  stone  seems  to  hold  se- 
crets of  the  past,  of  a  time  of  tragic  love, 
of  iron  if  mistaken  resolve  and  of  that 
death  which  leads  to  deathless  fame. 
On  one  bluff,  rising  sheer  and  steep 
from  the  water,  stands  the  little  church, 
neighbored  by  its  quiet  graveyard  and 
approached  through  the  solemn  lych- 
gate,  with  its  stone  slab  for  supporting 
the  coffin  while  the  bearers  rest.  To 
climb  this  height  in  the  late  afternoon 
and  watch  the  sun  until  it  sinks  into 
the  sea,  with  all  the  magnificence  of  a 
changeful  but  silent  pageant,  while  the 
water  ceaselessly  washes  on  the  crags 
below,  and  death  and  worship  keep  ward 
behind,  is  a  strangely  sweet  and  solemn 
experience.  The  gulls  fly,  calling,  from 
rock  to  rock,  dip  their  wings  and  wheel 
back  again,  or  rest  an  instant  on  the 
unquiet  deep.  At  such  a  moment,  why 
should  not  the  red-legged  chough,  in 
whose  likeness  Arthur  revisits  his  na- 
tive haunts,  flit  unrecognized  by }  Skirt- 
ing the  headland  at  the  left  of  the 
church,  winding  down  by  zigzagging  de- 
III 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

grees,  is  a  path  leading  to  the  slate  quar- 
ries ;  and  there  all  day  men  are  splitting 
slate,  cutting  it  into  squares  and  send- 
ing it  over  into  the  harbor,  to  be  taken 
away  in  boats.  There  they  toil,  seem- 
ingly on  the  face  of  the  cliff,  in  safety, 
and  yet,  to  the  unaccustomed  eye,  at  al- 
most the  perilous  height  where  samphire 
gatherers  hang.  At  twilight,  however, 
they  are  gone,  and  the  place  is  still ; 
only,  perhaps,  some  dark-haired,  stalwart 
miner  comes  striding  across  the  height, 
to  offer  you  sea-birds'  eggs  for  sale,  or 
crystals  found  in  the  quarried  slate,  and 
known  as  Cornish  diamonds.  Then,  as 
the  gray  wings  of  twilight  softly  settle, 
turn  homeward  by  the  lowly  road  sunken 
in  the  valley,  past  the  rectory,  embow- 
ered in  green,  and  sleep,  perhaps  mur- 
muring, like  Guinevere's  little  maid,  — 

"  I  thank  the  saints  I  am  not  great !  "  — 

that  destiny  has  not  for  all  such  store 
of  tragedy  as  it  brought  those  childlike, 
passionate  souls  of  an  earlier  day  who 
dwelt  in  rock-bound  castles,  and  chal- 
lenged fate  in  the  daily  struggles  of  a 
tumultuous  living. 

After  the  death  of  Uther  Pendragon, 
when  many  mighty  lords  coveted  succes- 


THE  LAND  OF  ARTHUR 

sion  to  the  throne,  Merlin  counseled  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  to  send  all 
the  gentlemen  of  the  realm  to  London  ; 
and  there  they  found,  in  the  great  church 
of  the  city,  against  the  high  altar,  a  stone, 
and  in  its  midst  a  steel  anvil.  Therein 
stuck  a  fair  sword,  naked,  by  the  point ; 
and  letters  of  gold  were  written  about 
the  sword  saying  thus  :  "  Whoso  pull- 
eth  out  this  sword  of  this  stone  and  an- 
vil is  rightwise  born  King  of  England." 
And  many  knights  essayed  the  task ; 
but  none  but  Arthur  could  pull  it  out, 
"lightly  and  fiercely."  Then  arose 
much  wrangling  among  the  nobles 
whether  he  were  a  truly  begotten  son 
of  Uther  Pendragon,  so  that  his  corona- 
tion was  long  deferred ;  but,  when  at 
last  it  was  holden,  it  was  at  the  city  of 
Caerleon  upon  Usk ;  or,  as  some  say,  he 
was  merely  consecrated  there,  and  after- 
wards crowned  at  Stonehenge.  Caerleon 
is  a  town  of  indisputable  antiquity ;  but 
to-day  all  it  can  offer  the  most  enthusias- 
tic pilgrim  is  a  grassy  mound,  several 
acres  in  circumference,  depressed  in  the 
centre,  whereon  stood  Arthur's  castle. 
The  view  from  the  circular  grassy  ram- 
part takes  in  the  placid  valley  of  the  Usk, 
"3 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

a  muddy  little  stream,  fleeing  away  to 
join  the  Severn.  The  valley  is  encircled 
by  hills,  and  these  are  flanked  by  others 
still  higher ;  yet  the  prospect  is  neither 
bold  nor  vast.  It  seems  to  mirror  the 
humble  beginning  of  Arthur's  suprem- 
acy, before  he  held  court  at  Camelot  or 
at  Westminster.  At  the  latter  place,  it 
must  be  remembered,  his  seat  was  fixed 
when  Elaine,  the  "  Lily  Maid,"  floated 
down  from  Astolat,  or  Guildford,  in  Sur- 
rey. When  he  had  married  Guinevere, 
daughter  of  King  Leodograunce,  he  kept 
his  royal  state  at  Camelot ;  and,  in  set- 
tling upon  the  modern  equivalent  of 
that  enchanted  spot,  the  traveler  may 
please  his  fancy,  if  he  have  not  a  pain- 
fully critical  mind,  and  can  be  content 
with  what  the  wise  may  frown  upon. 
Was  it  Winchester  ?  That  is  a  goodly 
and  ancient  town ;  and,  if  he  choose  to 
wander  by  the  smooth-flowing  Itchen, 
dreaming  of  souls  more  heroic  than  Izaak 
Walton,  who  shall  blame  him  ?  If  he 
look  with  reverent  eye  upon  the  stone 
coffin  there  displayed  as  Arthur's,  shall 
we  pronounce  him  childishly  credulous  .-' 
Or,  perhaps,  with  the  faith  of  the  tourist 
in  an  oft-proven  Baedeker,  he  will  as- 
114 


THE   LAND   OF  ARTHUR 

sume  that  Camelot  was  Camelford,  a 
little  town  six  miles  from  Trevena,  pre- 
sided over  by  Row  Tor  and  Brown  Willy, 
the  two  highest  mountains  in  Cornwall. 
Not  far  from  Camelford  is  the  stone 
bridge  called  "  Slaughter  Bridge,"  said 
to  be  the  scene  of  Arthur's  disastrous 
defeat.  Yet  no  one  need  waste  over  it 
too  deep  a  sentiment ;  for  antiquaries 
have  declared  that  the  half  obliterated 
inscription  on  the  slab  once  spanning  the 
stream  (and  some  years  ago  removed, 
to  be  set  up  in  better  view)  has  no- 
thing whatever  to  do  with  the  British 
king.  Scene  of  a  British  fight  no  doubt 
it  was,  but  not  of  Arthur's  battle.  The 
most  reliable  evidence,  however,  is  in 
favor  of  Queen's  Camel,  or  South  Cad- 
bury,  in  Somersetshire.  There,  in  the 
midst  of  a  fertile  and  diversified  country, 
stands  a  hill,  leveled  at  the  top  to  form 
a  circular  plain,  and  commanding  a  right 
royal  view  of  wood,  meadow,  and  tor 
beyond.  At  its  feet  lie  scattered  ham- 
lets, humble  cottages,  each  group  with 
its  gray,  square-towered  church,  —  mild 
symbol  of  the  peaceful  domestic  life 
which  slept  and  ate  below  that  heroic 
one  of  court  and  chivalry.  Here  Guine- 
"5 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

vere  and  Launcelot  kissed  and  sighed. 
Here  did  the  innocent  glow  of  their  first 
bond  —  that  of  knight  and  sovereign 
lady  —  deepen  into  that  passion  which 
was  crime. 

The  scene  of  Arthur's  defeat,  — 

"  that  last  weird  battle  in  the  West,"  — 

has  not  been  determined  with  absolute 
certainty ;  but  the  balance  of  evidence  — 
swelled,  surely,  by  the  voluntary  testi- 
mony of  those  who  have  compared  the 
poetic  values  of  the  region  —  is  in  favor 
of  Salisbury  Plain,  loneliest  land-stretch 
imaginable  by  poet  or  dreamer.  Ex- 
actly what  it  is  which  stamps  the  plain 
with  eerie  awesomeness  it  would  be  dif- 
ficult to  say.  Let  the  wayfarer  wind 
slowly  up  and  up  from  spired  Salisbury 
town,  past  Old  Sarum,  and  gradually 
there  falls  upon  him  a  certainty  that 
here  is,  if  not  the  strength  of  the  hills, 
their  utter  loneliness.  The  few  dwell- 
ings and  dotted  trees  do  not  in  the  least 
serve  to  break  that  sweeping  expanse. 
The  larks  run  up  their  ascending  scale 
of  joy  from  the  first  low-brooding  ground- 
notes  to  ecstatic  lyrics,  lost  in  the  high- 
est blue ;  the  sun  intermittently  casts 
down  a  Danae  shower,  —  yet  still  is  the 
ii6 


THE  LAND  OF  ARTHUR 

place  an  embodiment  of  desolation.  It 
is  like  a  formless,  monstrous  presence, 
oppressing  the  soul.  It  is  the  sphinx, 
the  very  spirit  of  the  desert,  but  the 
sphinx  become  blind  and  dumb.  Crown- 
ing the  utmost  height  of  the  plain  are 
those  giant  monoliths,  the  disordered 
order  of  Stonehenge,  about  which  clings 
a  legend  of  Merlin.  Not  far  from  here, 
says  tradition,  was  the  scene  of  a  British 
victory,  and,  when  the  Britons  proposed 
commemorating  it  by  a  monument.  Mer- 
lin advised  them  to  take  away  from  a 
mountain  in  Ireland  the  structure  called 
the  Giant's  Dance,  formed  of  stones 
stolen  by  giants  from  the  coast  of 
Africa,  and  possessing  mystical  virtues. 
It  was  Uther  Pendragon  who  finally 
conquered  Ireland,  and  sought  to  re- 
move the  stones  ;  but,  finding  the  task 
beyond  the  power  of  mortal  mechanics, 
he  called  Merlin  to  his  aid,  who  speedily 
accomplished  it  by  magic.  There  is  a 
certain  dramatic  satisfaction  in  imagin- 
ing the  battle  here,  under  the  very 
shadow  of  the  triumphal  pile  erected  by 
Arthur's  fostering  magician.  Here  was 
commemorated  the  Briton's  triumph  — 
here  was  a  Briton  overthrown. 
117 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

To  the  east  of  Stonehenge,  in  a 
greenly  wooded  valley,  lies  the  little 
town  of  Amesbury,  Almesbury,  or  Am- 
brosebury,  where  Guinevere  sought  ref- 
uge when  she  "  understood  that  her  lord, 
King  Arthur,  was  slain."  This  was  the 
scene  of  her  last  interview  with  Sir 
Launcelot,  most  moving,  in  its  passion- 
ate simplicity,  of  all  the  incidents  which 
form  this  tragic  chronicle  :  — 

"And  then  was  Queen  Guenever 
aware  of  Sir  Launcelot  as  he  walked  in 
the  cloister ;  and  when  she  saw  him 
there,  she  swooned  three  times,  that  all 
the  ladies  and  gentlewomen  had  work 
enough  for  to  hold  the  queen  up.  So, 
when  she  might  speak,  she  called  the 
ladies  and  gentlewomen  unto  her  :  '  Ye 
marvel,  fair  ladies,  why  I  make  this 
cheer.  Truly,'  said  she,  '  it  is  for  the 
sight  of  yonder  knight  which  is  yonder  : 
wherefore,  I  pray  you  all  to  call  him 
unto  me.'  And  when  Sir  Launcelot 
was  brought  unto  her,  then  she  said, 
'Through  this  knight  and  me  all  the 
wars  were  wrought,  and  the  death  of  the 
most  noble  knights  of  the  world  ;  for 
through  our  love  that  we  have  loved 
together  is  my  most  noble  lord  slain. 
ii8 


THE  LAND   OF  ARTHUR 

Therefore,  wit  thou  well,  Sir  Launcelot, 
I  am  set  in  such  a  plight  to  get  my  soul's 
health ;  and  yet  I  trust,  through  God's 
grace,  that  after  my  death  for  to  have 
the  sight  of  the  blessed  face  of  Jesu 
Christ,  and  at  the  dreadful  day  of  doom 
to  sit  on  his  right  side,  —  for  as  sinful 
creatures  as  ever  was  I  are  saints  in 
heaven. 

" '  Therefore,  Sir  Launcelot,  I  require 
thee,  and  beseech  thee  heartily,  for  all 
the  love  that  ever  was  between  us  two 
that  thou  never  look  me  more  in  the 
visage :  and,  furthermore,  I  command 
thee,  on  God's  behalf,  right  straightly 
that  thou  forsake  my  company,  and  that 
unto  thy  kingdom  shortly  thou  return 
again,  and  keep  well  thy  realm  from  war 
and  wreck.  For  as  well  as  I  have  loved 
thee.  Sir  Launcelot,  now  mine  heart  will 
not  once  serve  me  to  see  thee ;  for 
through  me  and  thee  are  the  flower  of 
kings  and  knights  destroyed.  Therefore, 
Sir  Launcelot,  go  thou  unto  thy  realm, 
and  there  take  thee  a  wife,  and  live  with 
her  in  joy  and  bliss ;  and  I  beseech  you 
heartily  pray  for  me  unto  our  Lord  God, 
that  I  may  amend  my  misliving.' " 

Then  like  a  true  knight  obedient  to 
119 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

his  lady,  did  Sir  Launcelot  answer  her 
that,  although  he  had  hoped  to  carry  her 
into  his  own  realm  and  country,  since 
she  would  not  have  it  so,  he  also  must 
take  to  prayer  and  penance  while  life 
should  last. 

"  *  Wherefore,  madam,  I  pray  you  kiss 
me  once,  and  nevermore.' 

"  *  Nay,'  said  the  queen,  '  that  shall  I 
never  do  ;  but  abstain  you  from  such 
things.'  And  so  they  departed  ;  but 
there  was  never  so  hardhearted  a  man 
but  he  would  have  wept  to  see  the  sor- 
row they  made,  for  there  was  lamenta- 
tion as  though  they  had  been  stung 
with  spears,  and  many  times  they 
swooned." 

And  when  Sir  Launcelot  at  length 
rode  away  through  the  forest,  weeping, 
he  came  upon  a  hermitage  and  a  chapel, 
where  a  little  bell  was  ringing  to  mass. 
He  threw  away  his  armor,  and  knelt  to 
be  assoiled  from  sin  ;  and  there  he  re- 
mained "serving  God,  day  and  night, 
with  prayers  and  fastings."  After  six 
years  there  came  to  him  a  vision,  charg- 
ing him  to  hasten  to  Almesbury,  where 
he  would  find  Queen  Guinevere  dead  ; 
thence  should  he  carry  her  body,  and  lay 

I20 


THE  LAND  OF  ARTHUR 

it  beside  that  of  King  Arthur.  Mean- 
time, the  dying  queen  had  learned,  also 
in  a  vision,  that  Launcelot  had  been 
called  to  that  dolorous  task,  and  it  was 
her  prayer,  for  the  two  days  before  her 
death,  that  she  "  might  never  see  Sir 
Launcelot  with  her  worldly  eyes."  For 
the  mighty  passion  of  that  love  had 
burnt  on  and  on  through  hours  of  pen- 
ance and  prayer ;  it  had  eaten  up  the 
mortal  frame,  its  habitation.  Then  did 
Sir  Launcelot  and  seven  fellow-monks 
bear  the  queen's  body  to  Glastonbury, 
where  she  was  buried,  with  dirge  and 
requiem  ;  and  there  did  he  speak  over 
her  those  lofty  words,  which  fitly  end 
the  tragic  tale  :  — 

"  My  sorrow  may  never  have  an  end. 
For  when  I  remember  and  call  to  mind 
her  beauty,  her  bounty,  and  her  noble- 
ness, that  was  as  well  with  her  king,  my 
Lord  Arthur,  as  with  her  ;  and  also  when 
I  saw  the  corpse  of  that  noble  king,  and 
noble  queen,  so  lie  together  in  that  cold 
grave  made  of  earth,  that  sometime  was 
so  highly  set  in  most  honorable  places, 
truly  mine  heart  would  not  serve  me  to 
sustain  my  wretched  and  careful  body." 

Amesbury    was    one    of   the    oldest 

12  X 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

centres  of  British  civilization,  and  its 
monastery  —  afterwards  a  convent  of 
Benedictine  nuns  —  doubtless  flour- 
ished under  the  protection  of  Aurelius 
Ambrosius,  the  British  prince  who  so 
long  and  so  successfully  defended  his 
country  against  the  Saxons.  Past  the 
little  town  winds  Avon's  "  troutful 
stream,"  and  a  lonely  church  sits  in  the 
hamlet's  midst,  still  solitary,  though  en- 
compassed by  lowly  dwellings.  This 
church,  however,  does  not  cover  the  site 
of  the  former  monastery :  that  is  now 
included  within  private  grounds,  and 
the  stones  once  forming  the  walls  have 
hopelessly  lost  their  identity  among  those 
of  modern  buildings.  Amesbury,  at  the 
present  day,  seen  under  a  shifting  sky,  is 
a  still  and  thoughtful  place,  bearing  ever 
a  haunting  suggestion  of  romance  and 
remembrance. 

Tennyson  fixes  the  scene  of  Arthur's 
last  great  struggle  in  the  land  of  Lyo- 
nesse,  under  the  eternal  washing  of  the 
surge  sweeping  between  Land's  End  and 
the  Scilly  Isles.  An  almost  uninterrupted 
tradition  declares  that  these  islands  were 
once  joined  to  the  mainland  by  a  well- 
populated  strip  of  land,  a  bare  backbone 


THE  LAND  OF  ARTHUR 

of  mountain  stretching  through  the  cen- 
tre, and  fertile  valleys  edging  its  shores. 
In  Lyonesse  lived  a  prosperous  and  pious 
people.  Their  churches  were  a  hundred 
and  forty.  What  their  farms  and  gar- 
dens were,  what  must  have  been  the 
sweetness  of  the  sandy  reaches  and  the 
calm  bays,  can  be  imagined  by  those  who 
have  tasted  the  airs  that  are  here  the 
breath  of  the  Gulf  Stream,  cherisher  of 
bloom.  But  there  came  a  day,  says  the 
story,  when  doom  overtook  them  ;  possi- 
bly not  in  haste,  —  for  one  man  had  time 
to  reach  the  mainland  before,  with  un- 
conquerable might,  the  sea  rose  and  over- 
whelmed his  home.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  however,  it  is  unknown  whether 
Lyonesse  was  slowly  eaten  away  by  the 
greedy  sea  or  whether  it  sank  under  swift 
convulsion.  That  such  a  land  once  ex- 
isted is  upheld  by  the  fact  that  a  neighbor- 
ing coast  region  was  undoubtedly  subject 
to  the  same  calamity  of  tidal  overflow ; 
for  of  the  submerged  forests  off  Mount's 
Bay  there  is  historic  witness.  Since  the 
land  of  Lyonesse  lives  no  longer,  save  in 
imagination,  one  would  fain  fancy  it  to 
have  been  even  a  fairer  and  less  melan- 
choly spot  than  Tennyson  has  made  it. 
123 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

To  my  own  mind,  it  has  a  maiden  sweet- 
ness, a  springtime  charm,  belonging 
chiefly  to  those  mystic  regions  which 
"  eye  hath  not  seen." 

At  Glastonbury,  ancient  nursery  of 
the  British  Church,  rest  the  bones  of 
Arthur  and  Guinevere.  This  was  the 
Isle  of  Avalon,  familiarly  known  as  Aval- 
Ionia,  Island  of  Apples,  from  the  richness 
of  its  orchards.  So  let  .us  faithfully  be- 
lieve, even  though  it  is  Professor  Rhys 
who  tells  us  that  he  feels  "warranted 
in  unmooring  the  magic  spot,  and  attach- 
ing it  to  the  west  coast  of  Cornwall  "  ! 

The  railway  approach  to  Glastonbury 
fills  the  mind  with  a  new  astonishment 
at  the  wonderful  diversity  of  English 
scenery.  Here  the  flat  monotony  of 
green  field  is  relieved  by  hay-ricks  and 
stacks  of  black  peat.  As  you  near  the 
town,  Glastonbury  Tor  rises  to  the  south 
like  a  huge  cone,  surmounted  by  Saint 
Michael's  Tower.  A  ridgy  elevation, 
extending  toward  the  west,  culminates 
in  Wearyall  Hill,  natural  monument  to 
Saint  Joseph  and  his  blossoming  staff. 
Scarcely  a  spot  in  England  has  such 
store  of  memories  for  the  antiquarian 
and  romantic  mind.  In  the  year  sixty- 
124 


THE   LAND   OF  ARTHUR 

three,  Joseph  of  Arimathea  and  eleven 
followers,  some  say  sent  by  Saint  Philip 
of  France,  landed  in  Britain,  and,  led 
by  the  Spirit,  continued  their  journey 
until  they  reached  this  ridgy  hill.  There, 
weary  with  wandering,  the  saint"  stuck 
his  thorn  staff  into  the  ground,  and,  lo ! 
when  he  and  his  companions  had  rested, 
they  found  that  the  staff  had  put  forth 
leaf  and  blossom,  —  miraculous  sign 
that  they  should  abide  in  the  place. 
Then  did  Joseph  go  down  into  the  val- 
ley, and  seek  the  island  covered  with 
brushwood,  and  to-day  enriched  by  the 
ruins  of  Glastonbury  Abbey,  and  built  a 
little  church  of  wood,  or  wattles.  There 
he  dwelt  and  died.  A  priestly  succes- 
sion kept  the  place  holy ;  and  round  about 
the  little  wattled  church  was  built  one  of 
stone,  that  the  old  and  sacred  walls  might 
be  preserved.  The  present  Saint  Joseph's 
Chapel  was  erected  by  Henry  II. ;  and 
the  great  church  at  the  east  of  it,  con- 
nected with  it  by  a  galilee,  was  completed 
a  century  after  his  death.  Not  only  does 
this  spot  deserve  the  reverence  due  to 
ancient  and  consecrated  ground,  but  it 
is  the  actual  link  connecting  the  Church 
of  the  present  day  with  the  Christian 

125 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

worship  of  ancient  Britain.  As  Freeman 
states,  it  was  "the  one  great  institution 
which  bore  up  untouched  through  the 
storm  of  English  conquest."  On  this  soil 
Saint  Patrick  dwelt  and  labored.  One 
tradition  even  declares  that  he  was  buried 
in  Saint  Joseph's  Chapel.  Here,  too,  was 
Saint  Dunstan's  cell,  scene  of  his  encoun- 
ter with  the  temptations  of  a  worldly  life, 
and  where  he  valiantly  seized  the  devil 
by  the  nose.  Until  Henry  VHI.'s  van- 
dal day,  the  Abbot  of  Glastonbury  had 
almost  royal  prerogatives  in  his  small  but 
wealthy  domain.  He  entertained  mag- 
nificently, often  receiving  five  hundred 
guests  at  a  time.  To  his  miniature  court 
were  sent  young  gentlemen  to  be  fitted 
with  the  accomplishments  suited  to  their 
station.  The  universities  were  flooded  by 
his  pupils.  This,  however,  was  too  rich 
a  field  not  to  attract  the  scent  of  the 
greedy  Tudor,  and  Henry's  commissien- 
ers  settled  upon  the  abbey  like  a  swarm 
of  locusts.  Then  good  Abbot  Whiting 
made  his  fatal  mistake  :  he  hid  from  them 
some  of  the  vessels  and  plate,  and,  being 
discovered,  was  forthwith  accused  of  rob- 
bing his  church.  Up  to  the  Tower  of  Lon- 
don was  he  sent,  to  be  afterwards  haled 
126 


THE   LAND   OF   ARTHUR 

back,  and  condemned  to  death  in  the  hall 
of  the  Bishop's  Palace  at  Wells.  But, 
with  an  exquisite  refinement  of  brutality, 
he  was  executed  in  sight  of  home,  — 
drawn  on  a  hurdle  to  the  top  of  Glaston- 
bury Tor,  and  there  hanged.  From  this 
time  of  tragic  overthrow,  the  abbey  be- 
gan to  fall  into  decay  ;  its  stones  were 
used  in  the  town  buildings,  and  even  to 
pave  the  roads  across  the  marshes  to 
Wells.  To-day  the  gray  remains,  instinct 
with  a  wonderful  strength  and  beauty, 
having  only  lapsed  into  that  desolation 
which  is  never  unlovely,  sit  in  -the  midst 
of  a  green  and  velvet  field. 

Saint  Joseph's  Chapel  is  still  a  thing  of 
wonder,  adorned  by  a  wilderness  of  bush 
and  weed  striving  ever  to  fill  its  crypt 
and  smother  the  foundations.  A  meagre 
but  stately  portion  of  the  large  church 
yet  remains,  rich  in  two  of  the  magnifi- 
cent columns  which  once  separated  nave 
from  choir,  crowned  now  by  the  wild 
rose  and  pink  and  yellow  sedum.  Sheep 
are  tamely  feeding  about  the  enclosure, 
and  sun  and  shower  bless  it,  but  the 
monks,  with  Arthur  and  Guinevere,  have 
been  so  long  fallen  into  dust  that  only 
their  echoing  names  float  back  into  our 
127 


BY   OAK  AND  THORN 

later  day.  In  the  reign  of  Richard  I., 
says  tradition,  an  abbot  determined  to 
dig  beneath  two  stone  pyramids  standing 
just  outside  Saint  Joseph's  Chapel,  and 
evidently  placed  there  as  monuments  to 
some  important  personages.  After  de- 
scending sixteen  feet,  a  coffin  was  found, 
hollowed  out  of  an  oak-tree.  It  was  in 
two  divisions.  One  of  them,  occupying 
two  thirds  of  the  length  from  the  head 
downwards,  contained  the  body  of  a  man, 
of  such  stature  that  his  tibia  reached 
to  the  middle  of  a  tall  man's  thigh.  In 
the  lower  partition  lay  a  female  figure, 
adorned  still  by  one  tress  of  golden  hair. 
At  this,  however,  a  monk  snatched  too 
eagerly,  and  it  fell  into  dust.  At  the 
same  time  and  place  they  came  upon  a 
leaden  cross,  bearing  the  inscription  in 
Latin,  "  Here  lies  buried  in  the  Island 
Avallonia  the  renowned  King  Arthur." 
The  bones  were  afterward  removed  to 
the  great  church,  and  placed  before  the 
high  altar,  where  now  the  soil  into 
which  they  have  been  transmuted  nour- 
ishes the  daisy-starred  grass,  which  is 
the  carpet  of  ruins.  But  if  the  king 
died  not,  and  was  but  carried  to  Avalon 
for  the  healing  of  his  wounds,  when 
128 


THE  LAND  OF  ARTHUR 

shall  he  return  ?  The  story  "  sometimes 
represents  Arthur  and  his  men  dozing 
away,  surrounded  by  their  treasures,  in 
a  cave  in  Snowdon,  till  the  bell  of  des- 
tiny rings  the  hour  for  their  sallying 
forth  to  victory  over  the  Saxon  foe  ; 
sometimes  they  allow  themselves  to  be 
seen  of  a  simple  shepherd,  whiling  away 
their  time  at  chess  in  the  cavities  of 
Cadbury ;  and  sometimes  they  are  de- 
scribed lying  beneath  the  Eildon  Hills, 
buried  in  an  enchanted  sleep,  to  be 
broken  at  length  by  one 

" '  That  bids  the  charmed  sleep  of  ages  fly. 
Rolls  the  long  sound  through  Eildon's  caverns  vast, 
"While  each  dark  warrior  rouses  at  the  blast, 
His  horn,  his  falchion,  grasps  with  mighty  hand, 
And  peals  proud  Arthur's  inarch  from  Fairyland.' " 

In  a  field  adjoining  the  abbey  grounds, 
stands  the  Abbot's  Kitchen,  an  excellent 
example  of  early  domestic  architecture. 
It  is  a  building  square  without,  octago- 
nal within,  furnished  with  huge  fire- 
places at  the  corners  (wherein  one  can 
stand  and  look  up  to  the  sky),  and  a 
central  louvre  for  light  and  ventilation. 
A  cruciform  tithe -bam,  ancient  inns, 
and  two  historic  churches  also  invite 
the  antiquarian  eye.  The  traveler  who 
129 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

climbs  the  stony  street,  lined  with 
squalid  dwellings,  to  Wearyall  Hill  will 
only  be  rewarded  by  a  small  tablet  set 
in  the  ground  where  stood  Joseph's 
miraculous  thorn  ;  but  all  over  the  town 
he  will  be  offered  slips  from  that  mar- 
velous tree,  which  must  have  been  as 
wide  -  spreading  as  a  banyan,  to  have 
been  so  cut  and  distributed.  However 
it  came,  there  is  no  doubt  that  Glaston- 
bury possesses  a  species  of  thorn  — 
probably  brought  from  the  East  —  which 
blooms  twice  a  year,  once  at  the  usual 
time  and  again  in  the  winter,  though  it 
is  only  by  a  poetic  license  which  none 
but  the  hypercritical  will  dispute,  that  it 
is  said  to  open  exactly  on  Christmas 
Day. 

The  ascent  of  Glastonbury  Tor,  by  an 
encircling  path,  is  difficult  indeed.  On 
approaching  the  breezy  summit,  one  feels 
obliged  to  sit  down  for  frequent  inter- 
vals of  rest,  clutching  the  long  grass  as 
a  safeguard  against  rolling  down  again. 
But  once  under  the  shadow  of  Saint 
Michael's  Tower,  —  doubtless  a  pilgrim 
shrine,  —  such  breathless  effort  is  amply 
repaid.  Below  lies  Glastonbury,  no 
longer  an  island,  but  surrounded  by  fair 
130 


THE   LAND   OF  ARTHUR 

fields  in  place  of  its  once  glassy  streams, 
and  dotted  with  greenery.  Wells  Cathe- 
dral marks  out  that  little  town,  like  a 
carven  finger-post ;  and  in  the  far  dis- 
tance, beyond  the  Mendips,  a  shadowy 
cloud  on  the  horizon,  lie  the  hills  of 
Wales.  On  the  day  of  my  visit  two  lit- 
tle maids  sat  together  under  a  shelter- 
ing wall,  in  a  field  at  the  foot  of  the 
Tor,  each  with  her  knitting. 

"  Is  it  a  very  hard  hill  to  climb } " 
asked  I. 

"  Oh,  no,  miss,"  said  one,  lifting  her 
serious  blue  eyes  for  an  instant  from  her 
work,  "  it  is  easy,  quite  easy." 

But  I  did  not  find  it  so  ;  and  neither, 
I  fancy,  did  poor  Abbot  Whiting,  even 
though  he  had  a  hurdle,  and  had  left 
responsibility  forever  behind. 
131 


THE  BRONTE   COUNTRY 

The  traveler  who  would  know  Eng- 
land in  all  her  moods  must  assuredly 
visit  Yorkshire  as  well  as  the  smiling 
Midland  counties ;  and  if  he  be  a  literary 
pilgrim,  and  would  fain  understand  in 
some  measure  those  three  great  and 
lonely  spirits,  the  Bronte  sisters,  let  him 
seek  out  the  moors  where  they  walked 
and  meditated,  and  vainly  explore  the  re- 
gion round  for  one  glimpse  of  the  softer 
brightness  that  is  the  welcome  of  the 
south. 

Keighley,  on  the  direct  road  from 
Leeds  and  four  miles  from  Haworth,  has 
a  comfortable  inn,  the  Devonshire  Arms, 
where  the  tourist  is  made  hospitably  wel- 
come. It  fronts  on  one  of  the  principal 
streets ;  and  seated  at  its  window,  the 
visitor  is  within  arm's  length  of  crowds 
of  sickly  mill-operatives,  standing  about 
on  the  pavement  during  the  noon  hour, 
no  doubt  discussing  the  problem  of  keep- 
ing body  and  soul  together,  or  hurrying 
past  to  the  cheerless  monotony  of  their 
132 


THE  BRONTE  COUNTRY 

unsmiling  day.  Keighley  is  a  frowning 
town.  Its  houses  are  of  a  dark  and  dis- 
mal gray  stone,  and  the  very  atmosphere 
is  overspread  by  that  grim  and  unmis- 
takable look  which  is  testimony  that 
beauty  is  naught,  and  use  alone  has  been 
deified.  The  most  forcible  impression 
made  on  the  new-comer  is  that  the 
swarming  herd  of  workmen  and  women 
are  victims  of  consumption  in  various 
stages.  A  chorus  of  coughing  continu- 
ally frets  the  air.  You  may  distinguish 
all  the  varied  notes  of  that  tragic  scale, 
from  the  nervous  hack  of  incipient  dis- 
ease to  the  convulsion  destined  to  shake 
and  tear  the  body  like  a  destroying  fiend. 
And  the  faces !  young  and  old,  they  are 
pallid,  and  set  in  the  dogged  lines  of  en- 
durance worn  by  those  who  have  aban- 
doned all  hope,  even  of  earning  the  daily 
loaf,  should  the  much-blasphemed  will  of 
God  afflict  them  by  a  dispensation  of  ill- 
ness. This  was  always  the  cheerful  at- 
mosphere of  the  town  nearest  Charlotte 
Bronte's  home ;  and  from  such  grim  shel- 
ter she  went  up  to  London,  on  a  rainy 
afternoon,  to  confess  the  peccadillo  of 
having  written  one  of  the  greatest  novels 
of  her  time. 

133 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

Few  influences  are  more  potent  than 
"atmosphere"  in  determining  the  bent 
of  sensitive  souls.  Charlotte  Bronte  was 
a  creature  so  fine  as  to  have  been  af- 
fected by  every  mental  and  spiritual 
breath.  The  most  honest  and  honor- 
able of  women,  she  yet  hesitated,  at 
times,  in  speaking  her  opinion,  because 
she  had  not  the  personal  strength  need- 
ful for  sustaining  an  argument.  Her 
tacit  yielding,  however,  meant  only  that 
she  could  not  hold  the  ground  of  dog- 
matic assertion.  That  all  the  unseen, 
intangible  influences  of  life  —  those  airy 
spirits  of  the  imagined  world  —  affected 
her  most  keenly  is  evident  from  the  self- 
betrayal  in  her  books,  and  every  jot  of 
evidence  from  those  who  knew  her  best. 

"  Something  seemed  near  me,"  she 
once  said,  in  reference  to  some  moment 
of  prescience,  when  the  invisible  pro- 
claimed itself  the  only  real.  Hers  was 
not  a  soul  for  fear,  but  one  swept  and 
thrilled  by  every  breath  of  nature  or  fin- 
ger of  event.  What  must  she  have  felt 
when,  within  the  gloomy  parsonage  walls, 
she  and  the  two  sharers  of  her  vigil  ex- 
pected to  hear  that  pistol-shot  which 
would  tell  them  that  Branwell,  insane 
134 


THE  BRONTfe   COUNTRY 

from  opium  and  misery,  had  killed  his 
father  or  himself  ?  Or  when,  Anne  and 
Emily  no  longer  alive,  she  paced  the  si- 
lent house  at  midnight,  unable  to  sleep, 
her  nerves  tense  with  anguish  and  the 
desire  to  touch  some  comfort  outside 
the  barren  present  ?  Certainly  it  is  most 
true  that,  to  judge  her  character  from 
the  inside,  one  must  actually  stand  in 
the  paths  where  she  walked,  and  scan 
her  heaven  with  a  studious  eye. 

It  was  on  a  day  woven  of  fanciful  fab- 
ric, shot  athwart  with  sun,  and  darkened 
by  sudden  misty  showers,  that  we  took 
the  train  for  Haworth,  and  leaving  the 
station,  climbed  that  steep  and  stony 
street  which  leads  to  church  and  parson- 
age. There  is  very  little  satisfaction  in 
visiting  the  church  and  examining  its 
shining  tablets  to  the  Bronte  family,  for 
the  edifice  has  been  rebuilt,  and  only  the 
old  square  tower  is  an  actual  memento 
of  the  past.  The  parsonage,  too,  has 
been  remodeled  ;  and  though  parts  of 
the  kitchen  walls  have  been  retained,  the 
most  curious  visitor  would  scarcely  find 
himself  repaid  for  invading  them.  But 
the  churchyard,  bleak  and  populous,  is 
the  same ;  and  there  also  is  that  bad 
135 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

neighbor,  the  Black  Bull  Inn,  where 
Branwell  caroused.  Still  do  the  "pur- 
ple-black "  moors,  the  one  delight  of 
Yorkshire,  wear  the  face  with  which 
they  enchained  Emily's  loyal  heart,  and 
spoke  peace  to  all  three  battling  spirits. 

"  My  sister  Emily  loved  the  moors," 
said  Charlotte.  "  Flowers  brighter  than 
the  rose  bloomed  in  the  blackest  of  the 
heath  for  her ;  out  of  a  sullen  hollow  in 
a  livid  hillside  her  mind  could  make  an 
Eden." 

August,  or  the  first  of  September,  is 
the  gala  time  for  the  heather ;  then  is  it 
in  full  glory  of  rose-purple,  and  prodigal 
in  bloom.  A  path  leads  by  the  parson- 
age and  through  a  gate  out  upon  this 
free  moorland  wilderness,  where,  on  a 
day  of  sun  overhead  and  bloom  under 
foot,  one  finds  a  delight  and  exhilaration 
suited  to  the  mountain-tops  of  life.  One 
lonely  figure  only  did  we  overtake  on  the 
afternoon  of  our  visit,  —  a  tall,  gaunt 
woman,  with  shawl  thrown  over  her 
head,  who,  swinging  her  great  house-key, 
had  been  to  the  churchyard  where  lay 
her  husband's  grave.  This  was  the  way 
to  the  "  mo-ors,"  she  told  us,  with  an  in- 
describable broadening  of  the  vowels. 
136 


THE  BRONTE  COUNTRY 

This  path  was  called  the  Bronte  Walk, 
for  Charlotte  and  her  sisters  had  been 
said  to  delight  in  it.  It  was  a  lonely 
region,  she  confessed.  She  herself  had 
come  here  from  the  north  to  be  near  her 
husband's  people  ;  and  now  he  was  dead, 
and  she  alone.  A  forlorn  place,  —  but 
the  "  mo-ors  "  were  company.  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  they  might  be,  in  that 
region  of  gray  villages,  of  sky  too  often 
clouded,  of  sweeping  winds  and  drizzling 
rain.  It  rained  as  we  walked  along  the 
ling-bordered  path,  and  talked  of  those 
three  women  whose  hearts  and  lips  had 
been  touched  with  the  immortal  fire  of 
the  ideal,  and  yet  to  whom  duty  was  ever 
that  "stern  law-giver"  from  whose  de- 
cree they  could  never  swerve.  As  we 
wound  about  one  knoll  after  another  of 
the  curving  moor,  lo !  the  clouds  were 
swept  aside,  and  blue  sky  briefly  smiled. 
What  tongue  can  speak  the  sad  beauty 
of  the  heather  with  the  sun  upon  it,  and 
fleeting  shadows  chasing  the  light  over 
low-lying  valleys  in  the  distance  !  That 
day  the  ling  was  in  full  bloom,  and 
heather,  somewhat  earlier  in  its  coming, 
still  showed  rosy  in  the  sun-patches. 
Ling  is  far  more  sober  in  its  general 
J37 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

effect  than  the  common  heath  ;  its  tones 
are  colder,  verging  on  lilac  and  gray. 
Yet,  close  to  the  eye,  it  declares  even  a 
finer  grace,  a  more  delicate  loveliness, 
than  those  of  its  hardy  sister.  It  is  the 
Quaker  maiden  of  the  barren  hills.  On 
the  left,  the  moor  goes  billowing  on  like 
the  fixed  heavings  of  an  amethystine  sea. 
Leave  the  path,  and  take  footing  in  the 
crisp  heather  that  crackles  under  foot 
with  a  husky  protest,  —  a  ringing  of 
whispering  chimes,  —  with  the  delusive 
hope  of  hurrying  to  the  top  of  some 
knoll  forming  the  horizon  line,  and  from 
which  you  fancy  yourself  able  to  see  all 
the  countries  of  the  earth.  It  is  no  easy 
task.  Traverse  hill  and  hollow,  and 
there  are  still  more  knolls,  heather-cov- 
ered, and  a  new  horizon  line.  Perhaps 
he  is  happier  who  does  not  seek  the 
highest  vantage-ground  to  over-sweep 
villages  in  distant  valleys,  but  goes  away 
rich  in  the  certainty  that  he  has  not  seen 
the  confines  of  the  moors,  and  that  their 
extent  is  infinite.  On  and  on  sweeps  the 
heavenly  monotony  of  these  brown-gray 
solitudes.  If  you  cling  only  to  the  path, 
you  meet  an  occasional  flock  of  feeding 
sheep ;  a  tiny  watercourse  bars  the  way, 
138 


THE  BRONTE  COUNTRY 

or  a  dismal  stone  house,  more  cheerless 
company  than  none,  sits  frowning  at  the 
sky. 

But  what  must  they  be,  these  bleak 
hillsides,  when  the  winter  wind  rages 
across  them,  and  lays  waste  the  land 
with  his  invisible  sword  ?  One  shudders 
as  fancy  pictures  the  spot,  and  shudders 
again,  remembering  how  winter  as  well 
as  summer  found  three  tender  women 
here  imprisoned  in  a  hermitage  they 
loved.  Skies  might  be  scowling,  and  the 
heather  a  withered  waste ;  indoors  they 
must  sit  beneath  the  shadow  of  their 
father's  rigorous  life  and  their  brother's 
ruin.  Yet  were  they  undaunted,  and 
clung  to  patience,  fanning  the  fire  of  im- 
agination until  their  chilled  hearts  were 
warmer  from  the  glow.  Nay,  happier 
than  that,  they  were  still  starved  and 
cold ;  but  for  us,  for  whom  they  uncon- 
sciously lived,  they  builded  a  great  bon- 
fire ;  for  they  have  stirred  us  anew  with 
that  mighty  lesson  of  the  power  of  the 
spirit.  O  marvelous  sway  of  the  few 
endowed  with  the  gift  we  call  genius, 
that  though  the  body  faint,  and  per- 
sonal happiness  dies  or  is  still-born,  they 
have  yet  the  strength  to  build  for  them- 
139 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

selves  monuments  more  enduring  than 
brass,  which  are  as  finger-posts  to  all 
other  striving  souls ! 

Over  a  little  stationer's  shop  in  the 
village  was  then  a  sparse  collection  of 
Bronte  relics  :  pencil  drawings,  finished 
with  the  exquisite  care  characterizing 
every  work  from  Charlotte's  fingers,  her 
little  old-fashioned  shawl  (somehow  so 
like  her  that  it  is  more  precious  than 
the  whole  collection),  and  various  house- 
hold articles  bought  from  the  auction- 
sale  after  her  death.  The  keeper  of  this 
little  store  of  curiosities  was  a  relative 
of  that  Martha  who  had  been  Tabby's 
helpmate  in  the  kitchen,  when  she  be- 
came too  old  for  work,  and  yet  could 
not  be  discharged ;  and  it  was  through 
Martha  that  many  of  the  articles  were 
obtained.  Now  there  is  a  Bronte  Soci- 
ety and  a  Museum  :  strange  antitheses 
to  the  seclusion  of  those  shrinking  lives. 

It  is  impossible  to  look  at  the  Black 
Bull  without  an  unjust  feeling  of  rancor, 
remembering  its  fascination  for  Bran- 
well,  and  its  share  in  his  wrong-doing. 
It  is  a  small  tavern  of  the  gray  stone  so 
unfortunately  common  in  the  region,  and 
such  near  neighbor  is  it  to  the  church- 
140 


THE  BRONTE  COUNTRY 

yard  that  one  can  easily  fancy  him  leap- 
ing from  its  window  into  the  yard,  as  he 
was  said  to  do,  when  he  heard  Char- 
lotte's voice,  on  her  way  to  seek  and 
draw  him  home. 

"  Do  you  want  some  one  to  help  you 
with  your  bottle,  sir  ? "  a  stranger  would 
be  asked  at  the  inn.  "  If  you  do,  I  '11 
send  up  for  Patrick."  And  then  poor 
Branwell  (or  Patrick,  as  he  was  familiarly 
called)  would  be  swept  into  those  orgies, 
of  which  the  very  suspicion  covered  his 
sisters  with  shame  and  horror. 

The  actually  "  passionate  pilgrim " 
who  leaves  unturned  no  stone  beneath 
which  lies  the  weed  of  remembrance, 
will  devote  a  thought  to  the  Brontes  in 
London,  and  walk  through  Paternoster 
Row  with  the  recollection  that  here 
stood  the  Chapter  Coffee-house  where 
Charlotte  and  Anne,  doubtless  through 
a  long  course  of  years  its  only  women 
visitors,  spent  the  few  days  of  their  stay 
in  London.  The  house  was  of  old  and 
great  renown.  Under  its  roof  starving 
Chatterton  wrote  his  mother,  in  that 
burst  of  deceptive  pride,  "  I  am  quite 
familiar  at  the  Chapter  Coffee-house, 
and  know  all  the  geniuses  there."  It 
141 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

was  once  the  meeting-place  of  wit  and 
scholar ;  and  later,  when  its  fame  had 
somewhat  declined,  country  clergymen 
and  university  men  occasionally  sought 
it  out,  to  hear  what  might  have  hap- 
pened in  the  world  of  letters.  The 
Brontes,  who  knew  of  it  through  their 
father's  rare  visits,  had  no  idea  that  they 
were  doing  anything  unusual  in  making 
it  their  stopping  place ;  and  it  proved  a 
hospitable  and  kindly  shelter.  Think  of 
the  two  little  creatures  clinging  together 
in  a  window  -  seat  of  the  dingy  room, 
when  their  publisher  came  to  take  them 
to  the  opera,  and  of  their  bewilderment 
at  the  noise  of  "  the  City "  surging 
without !  Yet  Charlotte  always  declared 
she  loved  the  busy  City  better  than  the 
West  End :  the  one  existed  for  work, 
the  other  for  luxury  and  fashion. 

Is  there  not  heavenly  significance  in 
the  chord  which  thrills  and  tightens 
when  we  approach  the  dwelling-places  of 
great  and  beloved  souls,  so  that  we  are 
drawn  to  walk  in  the  paths  their  feet 
have  trod  and  look  into  the  skies  that 
sheltered  them  ?  It  is  more  than  curi- 
osity, more  than  the  satisfaction  of  a 
romantic  hero-worship.  Do  we  follow 
142 


THE   BRONTE   COUNTRY 

their  earthly  footprints  with  such  mi- 
nuteness because  we  would  "pluck  out 
the  heart  of  their  mystery,"  and  learn, 
if  such  a  thing  might  be,  the  secret  of 
that  which  made  them  thus  ?  Such  in- 
fluences fostered  them,  we  say,  such  soil 
gave  them  birth.  Shall  we  not  be  a 
little  nearer  —  not  only  them,  but  the 
great  Source  of  greatness  —  if  we  learn 
the  story  of  their  sojourn  here  ? 

It  is  wisely  resolved,  and  he  does  well 
who  throws  himself  into  such  sympa- 
thetic understanding ;  yet  even  for  him 
"the  greatest  is  behind."  By  diligent 
searching,  he  shall  never  analyze  the 
divine  spark  illuminating  the  soul  with 
its  own  radiance  of  beauty.  He  can 
only  trace  the  glow  left  by  its  progress, 
and  stop  where  scientist  and  Christian 
alike  must  pause,  at  the  one  unspeakable 
Name. 

143 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  CUP 

One  day  at  the  beginning  of  our  cen- 
tury, Washington  Irvung,  then  browsing 
on  the  Parnassus  grass  of  England,  be- 
thought him  of  paying  a  visit  to  East- 
cheap,  that  home  of  princely  jest  and 
Falstaffian  revelry ;  and  he  afterwards 
set  down,  in  delectably  humorous  Eng- 
lish, the  story  of  his  attendant  search  for 
the  old  Boar's  Head  Tavern.  The  his- 
tory of  that  famous  inn  exists  in  little, 
and  may  be  told  while  the  hourglass 
runs  a  measure  of  sand  such  as  Queen 
Mab  might  hold  upon  her  palm.  When 
it  was  built  no  chronicle  relates,  but  of 
a  certainty  it  was  burned  in  the  Great 
Fire  of  1666.  Its  successor  of  the  same 
name,  sought  out  by  Goldsmith,  who 
dreamed  there  of  Mrs.  Quickly,  in  the 
naifve  and  delightful  belief  that  he  was 
sitting  beneath  the  original  roof -tree, 
had  also  gone  the  way  of  the  dead-and- 
alive  who  creep  too  far  into  a  new  cen- 
tury. Unfortunately,  the  old  Boar  stood 
in  the  pathway  of  progress,  and  his  ten- 
144 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  CUP 

ement  was  first  absorbed  by  shops,  and 
then  swept  away  altogether  in  183 1,  to 
make  way  for  the  approaches  to  New 
London  Bridge.  Now,  the  site  of  his 
former  glory  is  indicated  in  one  meagre 
line  from  Baedeker,  which  incidentally 
informs  the  expectant  tourist  that  he 
will  find  the  monument  erected  to  King 
William  IV,  "at  the  point  where  King 
William  Street,  Gracechurch  Street, 
Eastcheap,  and  Cannon  Street  converge ; 
on  a  site  once  occupied  by  Falstaffs 
Boar's  Head  Tavern."  To  be  thus 
minimized,  thus  dragged  in  under  the 
shadow  of  a  mere  inheritor  of  crowns,  — 
is  it  not  enough  to  make  fat  Jack  flash 
out  a  lightning  -  sharp  gibe  from  his 
limbo,  and  send  some  colossal  eulogy  of 
self  hurtling  back  into  our  empty  day  ? 

Goldsmith's  vision  in  the  tavern  re- 
built after  the  fire  deserves  remem- 
brance as  one  of  those  performances 
wherein  the  greatness  of  the  dramatis 
personcs  does  away  with  the  necessity 
for  correct  scene-setting. 

"  Here,"  he  says,  "  by  a  pleasant  fire, 

in  the  very  room  where  old   Sir  John 

Falstaff  cracked  his  jokes,  in  the  very 

chair  which  was  sometimes  honored  by 

145 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

Prince  Henry,  and  sometimes  polluted 
by  his  immortal  merry  companions,  I  sat 
and  ruminated  on  the  follies  of  youth, 
wished  to  be  young  again,  but  was  re- 
solved to  make  the  best  of  life  whilst  it 
lasted,  and  now  and  then  compared  past 
and  present  times  together.  .  .  .  The 
watchman  had  gone  twelve.  My  com- 
panions had  all  stolen  off,  and  none  now 
remained  with  me  but  the  landlord. 
From  him  I  could  have  wished  to  know 
the  history  of  a  tavern  that  had  such  a 
long  succession  of  customers.  I  could 
not  help  thinking  that  an  account  of  this 
kind  would  be  a  pleasing  contrast  of 
the  manners  of  different  ages.  But  my 
landlord  could  give  me  no  information. 
He  continued  to  doze  and  sot,  and  tell  a 
tedious  story,  as  most  other  landlords 
usually  do,  and  though  he  said  nothing, 
yet  was  not  silent.  One  good  joke  fol- 
lowed another  good  joke,  and  the  best 
joke  of  all  was  generally  begun  towards 
the  end  of  a  bottle.  I  found  at  last, 
however,  his  wine  and  his  conversation 
operate  by  degrees.  He  insensibly  be- 
gan to  alter  his  appearance.  His  cra- 
vat seemed  quilted  into  a  ruff,  and  his 
breeches  swelled  out  into  a  farthingale. 
146 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  CUP 

I  now  fancied  him  changing  sexes ;  and 
as  my  eyes  began  to  close  in  slumber,  I 
imagined  my  fat  landlord  actually  con- 
verted into  as  fat  a  landlady.  However, 
sleep  made  but  few  changes  in  my  situa- 
tion. The  tavern,  the  apartment,  and 
the  table  continued  as  before.  Nothing 
suffered  mutation  but  my  host,  who  was 
fairly  altered  into  a  gentlewoman  whom 
I  knew  to  be  Dame  Quickly,  mistress  of 
this  tavern  in  the  days  of  Sir  John ;  and 
the  liquor  we  were  drinking  seemed  con- 
verted into  sack  and  sugar. 

"  *  My  dear  Mrs.  Quickly,'  cried  I  (for 
I  knew  her  perfectly  well  at  first  sight), 
*I  am  heartily  glad  to  see  you.  How 
have  you  left  Falstaff,  Pistol,  and  the 
rest  of  our  friends  below  stairs .-"  —  brave 
and  hearty,  I  hope .'' '" 

There  was  little  left  for  Irving,  the 
pioneer  of  England  -  loving  Americans, 
but  an  hour  of  musing  over  past  mirth, 
and  a  fruitful  gossip  (O  that  some  crafty 
and  unscrupulous  listener  could  have 
written  us  down  its  story !)  with  a  worthy 
woman,  self-constituted  historian  of  the 
region,  and  like  Mrs.  Quickly  in  being 
"a  poor  widow  of  Eastcheap."  She  it 
was  who  suggested  that,  although  he  had 
147 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

necessarily  failed  in  looking  upon  the 
tavern,  he  might  find  a  picture  of  it  at 
Saint  Michael's  Church,  Crooked  Lane. 
Now,  not  only  had  the  back  window  of 
the  inn  looked  out  upon  Saint  Michael's 
churchyard,  but  the  inn  itself  had  passed 
into  the  hands  of  the  church ;  the  reve- 
nues of  Bacchus  thus  reverting  to  the 
Establishment.  Nothing  therefore  could 
be  more  natural  than  that  Saint  Michael's 
should  preserve  the  counterfeit  present- 
ment of  its  useful  ward.  But,  though 
Irving  betook  himself  there  without 
delay,  no  such  relic  was  forthcoming. 
Countless  were  the  tombs  of  fishmon- 
gers therein,  for  Saint  Michael's  lived 
near  neighbor  to  Billingsgate.  There 
also  were  treasured  the  ashes  of  William 
Walworth,  the  doughty  knight,  most  in- 
trepid of  lord  mayors,  who  smote  Wat 
Tyler  at  Smithfield.  In  the  little  grave- 
yard adjoining  the  church  stood  the 
tombstone  of  honest  Robert  Preston, 
drawer  of  renown,  doubtless  the  succes- 
sor of  that  Francis  who  had  the  im- 
mortal honor  of  serving  Prince  Hal  and 
Falstaff,  —  cold  comfort  all,  when  th? 
prime  jewel  of  East  cheap  was  lacking. 
The  sexton,  however,  perceiving  Irving's 
148 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  CUP 

disappointment,  and  reverencing,  as  Eng- 
lish sextons  will,  the  spirit  of  the  loving 
antiquary,  proposed  a  descent  upon  the 
Mason's  Arms,  at  No,  12  Miles  Lane. 
This  was  the  tavern  where  Saint  Mi- 
chael's vestry  held  its  meetings,  as  it 
once  had  held  them  at  the  Boar's  Head, 
departed.  Here,  too,  were  deposited  its 
vessels,  formerly  guarded  by  the  trusty 
Boar.  What  he  saw  there,  let  Irving 
himself  relate :  — 

"  The  old  sexton  had  taken  the  land- 
lady aside,  and,  with  an  air  of  profound 
importance,  imparted  to  her  my  errand. 
Dame  Honey  ball  was  a  likely,  plump, 
bustling  little  woman,  and  no  bad  sub- 
stitute for  that  paragon  of  hostesses, 
Dame  Quickly.  She  seemed  delighted 
with  an  opportunity  to  oblige  ;  and,  hur- 
rying upstairs  to  the  archives  of  her 
house,  where  the  precious  vessels  of  the 
parish  club  were  deposited,  she  returned, 
smiling  and  courtesying,  with  them  in 
her  hands. 

"The  first  she  presented  me  was  a 
japanned  iron  tobacco-box  of  gigantic 
size,  out  of  which,  I  was  told,  the  vestry 
had  smoked  at  their  stated  meetings 
since  time  immemorial ;  and  which  was 
149 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

never  suffered  to  be  profaned  by  vulgar 
hands,  or  used  on  common  occasions. 
I  received  it  with  becoming  reverence; 
but  what  was  my  delight  at  beholding 
on  its  cover  the  identical  painting  of 
which  I  was  in  quest !  There  was  dis- 
played the  outside  of  the  Boar's  Head 
Tavern,  and  before  the  door  was  to  be 
seen  the  whole  convivial  group,  at  table, 
in  full  revel ;  pictured  with  that  won- 
derful fidelity  and  force  with  which  the 
portraits  of  renowned  generals  and  com- 
modores are  illustrated  on  tobacco-boxes 
for  the  benefit  of  posterity.  Lest,  how- 
ever, there  should  be  any  mistake,  the 
cunning  limner  had  warily  inscribed  the 
names  of  Prince  Hal  and  Falstaff  on 
the  bottoms  of  their  chairs. 

"  On  the  inside  of  the  cover  was  an 
inscription,  nearly  obliterated,  recording 
that  this  box  was  the  gift  of  Sir  Richard 
Gore,  for  the  use  of  the  vestry  meetings 
at  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  and  that  it 
was  *  repaired  and  beautified  by  his  suc- 
cessor, Mr.  John  Packard,  1767.'  Such 
is  a  faithful  description  of  this  august  and 
venerable  relic,  and  I  question  whether 
the  learned  Scriblerus  contemplated  his 
Roman  shield,  or  the  Knights  of  the 
150 


THE  QUEST  OF  A   CUP 

Round  Table  the  long-sought  Sangreal, 
with  more  exultation. 

"  While  I  was  meditating  on  it  with 
enraptured  gaze,  Dame  Honeyball,  who 
was  highly  gratified  by  the  interest  it 
excited,  put  in  my  hands  a  drinking-cup, 
or  goblet,  which  also  belonged  to  the 
vestry,  and  was  descended  from  the  old 
Boar's  Head.  It  bore  the  inscription  of 
having  been  the  gift  of  Francis  Wythers, 
knight,  and  was  held,  she  told  me,  in 
exceeding  great  value,  being  considered 
very  'an tyke.' 

"  The  great  importance  attached  to 
this  memento  of  ancient  revelry  by  mod- 
ern church-wardens  at  first  puzzled  me ; 
but  there  is  nothing  sharpens  the  ap- 
prehension so  much  as  antiquarian  re- 
search, for  I  immediately  perceived  that 
this  could  be  no  other  than  the  identical 
*  parcel-gilt  goblet '  on  which  Falstaff 
made  his  loving  but  faithless  vow  to 
Dame  Quickly,  and  which  would,  of 
course,  be  treasured  up  with  care  among 
the  regalia  of  her  domains,  as  a  testi- 
mony of  that  solemn  contract." 

There  the  search  rested,  so  far  as 
Irving  was  concerned,  and  he  genially 
remarks,  at  the  close  of  his  paper,  that 
i5« 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

he  leaves  all  this  as  a  rich  mine  to  be 
worked  out  by  future  commentators. 
"Nor  do  I  despair,"  he  adds,  "  of  seeing 
the  tobacco-box  and  the  *  parcel-gilt  gob- 
let '  which  I  have  thus  brought  to  light, 
the  subject  of  future  engravings,  and 
almost  as  fruitful  of  voluminous  disser- 
tations and  disputes  as  the  shield  of 
Achilles  or  the  far-famed  Portland  Vase." 

The  story  of  his  pilgrimage  has,  in 
the  mind  imbued  with  romance,  a  pecu- 
liar charm.  For  my  own  part,  I  have 
never  for  an  instant  doubted  that  the 
goblet  which  he  identified,  with  the 
precision  of  genius,  was  actually  Mrs. 
Quickly's,  and  that  goblet  I  had  long 
resolved  to  seek,  should  fortune  take  me 
to  England. 

"  Came  a  day  "  (speaking  elliptically 
after  the  fashion  of  Aurora  Leigh), 
when,  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus,  with 
a  faithful  gossip,  I  crossed  the  Styx  of 
Holborn  and  Cheapside  to  that  land  still 
peopled  by  illustrious  ghosts,  still  decked 
in  brave  raiment  of  names  that  dazzle 
the  eye  and  stir  the  blood.  Though 
ancient  landmarks  have  been  effaced  by 
hurrying  feet,  intent  on  that  meat  which 
is  less  than  life,  Eastcheap  is  to-day  en- 
152 


THE  QUEST  OF  A   CUP 

chanted  ground,  and  its  tavern  a  Mecca 
of  the  mind.  The  very  names  in  the 
neighborhood  are  redolent  of  good  cheer. 
Bread  Street,  Fish  Street  Hill,  and  Pud- 
ding Lane  each  stands  pointing  a  sad 
finger  to  the  merry  past  when,  as  Lyd- 
gate  the  rhyming  monk  relates,  it  was  a 
city  of  cooks'  shops.  Lydgate's  period 
was  that  of  Henrys  IV.  and  V.,  and  his 
London  Lackpenny  has  the  ring  of  good 
and  olden  cheer. 

"  Then  I  hyed  me  into  Est-Chepe ; 

One  cryes  rybbs  of  befe,  and  many  a  pye ; 
Pewter  pottes  they  clattered  on  a  heape ; 
There  was  harpe,  pype  and  mynstrebye." 

High  revelry  was  held  in  Eastcheap  in 
the  time  of  Henry  IV.,  but,  according  to 
Stow,  that  most  delightful  of  antiquaries, 
who  in  the  face  of  manifold  discourage- 
ments added  riches  untold  to  the  treas- 
ury of  English  history,  no  taverns  then 
existed.  No  man  interfered  with  an- 
other's specialty.  "The  Cooks  dressed 
Meat  and  sold  no  Wine;  and  the  Tav- 
erner  sold  Wine  and  dressed  no  Meat 
for  Sale." 

"This  Eastcheap,"  continues  he,  "is 
now  a  Flesh-Market  of  Butchers,  there 
dwelling  on  both  sides  of  the  Street ;  it 
153 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

had  sometime  also  Cooks  mixed  amongst 
the  Butchers,  and  such  other  as  sold 
Victuals  ready  dressed  of  all  sorts.  For 
of  old  time,  when  Friends  did  meet,  and 
were  disposed  to  be  merry,  they  went 
not  to  dine  and  sup  in  Taverns  (for  they 
dressed  not  Meats  to  be  sold),  but  to  the 
Cooks,  where  they  called  for  Meat  what 
they  liked,  which  they  always  found 
ready  dressed,  and  at  a  reasonable  rate." 

Eastcheap  in  fact  was  very  near  the 
river,  that  great  highway  of  London, 
upon  which  fish,  flesh,  and  wine  were 
brought  to  the  bank's  side.  Of  that 
strip  of  land  immediately  south,  and  be- 
tween Eastcheap  and  the  river,  a  twelfth- 
century  folio  has  suggestive  mention, 
thus  quoted  by  Stow  :  — 

"  In  London,  upon  the  River  side,  be- 
tween the  Wine  in  Ships,  and  the  Wine 
to  be  sold  in  Taverns,  is  a  common 
Cookery  or  Cooks  Row ;  where  daily, 
for  the  Season  of  the  Year,  Men  might 
have  Meat,  roast,  sod,  or  fryed  ;  Fish, 
Flesh,  Fowls,  fit  for  Rich  and  Poor. 

"  If  any  come  suddenly  to  any  Citizen 

from  afar,  weary,  and  not  willing  to  tarry 

till  the  Meat  be  bought  and  dressed  ; 

while  the  Servant  bringeth  Water  for 

154 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  CUP 

his  Master's  Hands,  and  fetcheth  Bread, 
he  shall  have  immediately  (from  the 
River  side)  all  Viands  whatsoever  he  de- 
sireth.  What  Multitude  soever,  either 
of  Soldiers  or  Strangers,  do  come  to  the 
City;  whatsoever  Hour,  Day  or  Night, 
according  to  their  Pleasures,  may  refresh 
themselves.  And  they  which  delight  in 
Delicateness,  may  be  satisfied  with  as 
delicate  Dishes  there,  as  may  be  found 
elsewhere.  And  this  Cooks  Row  is  very 
necessary  to  the  City :  And  according  to 
Plato  and  Gorgias,  Next  to  Physick,  is 
the  Office  of  Cooks,  as  Part  of  a  City." 

It  was  in  Eastcheap,  moreover,  that 
Prince  Hal's  two  brothers  fell  out  with 
the  watch,  an  episode  which  may  have 
served  as  the  germ  in  Shakespeare's 
brain  whence  blossomed  such  a  robust 
tree  of  mirth.  Near  by  stood  Prince 
Hal's  own  mansion  of  Cold  Harbour,  the 
cellars  enriched  with  his  father's  gift, 
"  twenty  casks  and  one  pipe  of  red  wine 
of  Gascoigne,  free  of  duty."  What  other 
part  of  London  could  Falstaff  possibly 
have  chosen  for  his  haunts  .-'  Even  in 
the  old  play  of  Henry  Fifth  which  pre- 
ceded Shakespeare's,  the  Prince  declares, 
"  You  know  the  old  tavern  in  Eastcheap ! 
155 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

there  is  good  wine."  Thus  is  this  rois- 
tering region  so  famous  in  contemporary 
eulogy  that  it  needs  no  bush  of  modern 
criticism. 

The  lover  of  Shakespeare  and  of  his 
FalstafF  is  conscious  of  an  excited  de- 
light in  threading  these  murky  streets 
of  "the  City,"  —  worshipful,  almost,  of 
the  very  ground  whereon  he  treads.  He 
will  stand  lost  in  dreaming  while  traffic 
surges  past,  and  smells  are  ancient  and 
fishlike,  mindful  of  memory  alone.  If, 
happily,  the  ideal  is  more  real  to  him 
than  solid  earth,  he  will  sweep  aside  the 
orderly  rubbish  of  a  modern  day,  and 
by  force  of  fancy  reconstruct  that  house 
where  "hours  were  cups  of  sack,  and 
minutes  capons."  Let  Falstaff  rise,  tav- 
ern reckoning  in  pocket,  and  counterfeit 
a  moment's  life,  as  "gunpowder  Percy" 
should  have  done  to  fright  him.  Then 
shall  we  see,  entering  beneath  the  tav- 
ern's tusked  sign,  "a  goodly  portly  man, 
'faith,  and  a  corpulent ;  of  a  cheerful 
look,  a  pleasing  eye,  and  a  most  noble 
carriage."  Here  stood  the  chair  which 
made  his  state,  when  he  dared  person- 
ate his  sovereign ;  this  cushion  was  his 
crown,  and  here  behind  the  arras  did  he 
156 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  CUP 

snore.  Here  was  discussed  that  merry 
jest  at  Gadshill,  and  this  is  the  room 
where,  in  the  telling,  FalstafFs  adver- 
saries were  so  marvelously  multiplied. 
Here  must  he  have  heard  the  chimes  at 
midnight,  and  here  was  his  heart  struck 
cold  with  pathetic  reminder  of  his  end. 
Remembrance  throngs  upon  us,  until  we 
are  fain  to  cry  :  — 

"  Banish  plump  Jack  and  banish  all  the  world !  " 

Last  and  most  lustrous  memory  of  all, 
William  Shakespeare,  who  saw  the  house 
almost  daily,  on  his  way  to  Blackfriars 
playhouse,  must  often  have  sought  its 
hospitable  door  for  his  cup  of  sack  and 
his  merry  jest  with  mine  host. 

When  Lessing  confessed  that  for  him 
the  search  after  truth  was  to  be  pre- 
ferred to  the  goddess  herself,  he  proved 
the  depth  of  his  true  wisdom.  Happy  is 
he  who  takes  a  roundabout  way  to  Ely- 
sium, and  so  is  pleasantly  entertained 
upon  the  road  !  There  is  no  comparison 
for  blessedness  between  his  lot  and  that 
of  the  victim  of  accurate  charts  and  in- 
fallible time-tables.  Had  Ulysses  formed 
one  of  a  "  personally  conducted  "  expe- 
dition, a  bankrupt  world  might  well  have 
157 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

bemoaned  its  loss ;  for  who  by  search- 
ing can  find  in  Cook's  circular  mention 
of  the  Lotophagi,  "who  for  their  only- 
nourishment  eat  flowers,"  the  Cyclops, 
Nausicaa,  or  Circe  ?  Yet  the  Wily  One 
came  upon  them  because  he  sacrificed 
not  on  the  altar  of  accurate  and  abom- 
inable science.  If  the  two  Americans 
who  sought  Eastcheap  one  golden  day 
had  devoted  an  hour's  study  to  their 
problem  in  the  British  Museum,  they 
would  have  wandered  less  widely  in  pur- 
suit of  their  desire ;  nay,  would  have 
concluded  that  there  was  nothing  left  to 
attain,  and  thus  confined  themselves  to 
the  region  of  narrow  experience  reserved 
for  those  who  let  "  '  I  dare  not '  wait 
upon  *  I  would.*  "  With  the  simplicity 
of  ignorance,  we  expected,  though  the 
tavern  had  been  swept  away,  to  lay  a 
finger  upon  the  link  forged  by  Irving 
with  the  past ;  to  look  upon  the  Mason's 
Arms,  custodian  of  box  and  goblet,  and 
to  visit  Saint  Michael's  Church,  forever 
memorable  from  having  held  its  vestry 
meetings  under  the  sign  of  the  Boar's 
Head. 

King  William's  Monument  was  easily 
found,  and  near  by  lay  Crooked  Lane, 


THE   QUEST  OF  A  CUP 

"  SO  called  of  the  crooked  windings 
thereof,"  though,  as  we  speedily  realized, 
its  generous  curve  had  been  cut  short  at 
the  call  of  traffic.  A  Ittoment's  inves- 
tigation made  it  also  evident  that  Saint 
Michael's  Church  had  in  that  lamenta- 
ble doing  been  swept  away.  Even  after 
that  certainty  had  settled  cold  upon  the 
heart,  we  walked  up  and  down  the  dingy 
street,  staring  beseechingly  about,  as  if 
perchance,  church,  tower  and  all  might 
magically  rise.  An  appeal  to  policemen 
and  dusty  looking  idlers  who  played  the 
r61e  of  oldest  inhabitant  bore  no  consol- 
ing fruit.  Saint  Michael's  Church  was 
gone ;  one  and  another  declared  that 
it  had  not  been  there  in  his  day  ;  and 
when  we  querulously  disputed  the  wis- 
dom of  its  removal,  we  were  urged  to 
consider  the  fair  proportions  of  those 
newer  streets  —  born  to  crowd  it  out  of 
being. 

"  But  be  not  daunted,"  at  length  whis- 
pered Hope :  "  the  Mason's  Arms  may 
still  have  such  store  of  compensation 
as  it  offered  Irving  in  his  quest ! " 

Therefore  we  turned  our  steps  in  the 
direction  of  Miles  Lane.  There  might 
the  heart  be  warmed  by  the  descendants 
159 


BY  OAK  AND   THORN 

of  Master  Edward  Honeyball,  Irving's 
kindly  host,  or  even  Master  Honeyball 
himself,  his  century  brimmed  over  and 
his  race  still  unfinished.  Narrow  and 
dingy  is  the  way.  Bales  of  goods  are 
hoisted  over  the  head  of  the  timorous 
traveler,  who,  if  he  be  prudent,  takes 
to  the  middle  of  the  street,  there  to 
be  jostled  by  unsavory  fish- venders  and 
bearers  of  burdens.  Such  hardships  of 
progress  are  of  little  moment,  however, 
to  one  inspired  by  the  hope  that  he  may 
presently  come  upon  Dame  Honeyball, 
hospitably  alert  in  the  doorway,  over- 
coming the  scruples  of  the  hesitant  trav- 
eler, and  persuading  him  that  her  wine 
needs  no  bush.  May  he  not  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  serving-maid  with  trim 
ankles,  or  even  a  savory  whiff  of  that 
mutton  which  was  a-roasting  so  many 
years  ago  ?  Vain  delusion  of  the  too 
alert  fancy !  The  Mason's  Arms  lives 
no  longer,  save  upon  Irving's  rescuing 
page.  Covering  its  former  ground 
stands  a  glaringly  modern  and  common- 
place "  public,"  whither  business  men, 
boys,  and  cabbies  were  that  day  tend- 
ing for  a  pot  of  beer,  to  emerge  brush- 
ing the  foam  from  appreciative  lips. 
1 60 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  CUP 

Yet  though  that  beery  seclusion  might 
be  reserved  for  the  tippling  male,  not  for 
such  reason  would  woman,  wrapped  in 
the  armor  of  an  idea,  refrain  from  pene- 
trating therein. 

The  traveler  in  England  soon  learns 
that  here,  as  in  the  economy  of  nature, 
nothing  is  lost,  and  that  axiom  will  com- 
fort him  on  many  a  discouraging  quest. 
Anything  which  Saint  Michael's  Church 
had  once  possessed  must  still  be  church 
property,  and  would  undoubtedly  be  kept 
in  this  parish,  or  in  a  neighboring  one. 
Therefore,  in  whatever  corner  of  secrecy 
and  darkness  its  forgotten  treasures  lay 
hidden,  they  might  surely  be  unearthed 
by  the  persistent  seeker.  Such  reason- 
able premises  being  assumed,  what  more 
likely  spot  could  there  be  for  eliciting 
fact  or  wildfire  gossip  than  the  common 
meeting-ground  of  a  tavern  ? 

The  white-aproned  "drawer"  would 
fain  have  told  us  all  we  sought,  so  said 
his  sympathetic  manner,  but  he  could 
only  suggest  the  beadle  as  a  probable 
fountain  of  Eastcheap  lore.  And  where 
was  the  beadle  to  be  found  }  He  was 
in,  not  five  minutes  ago,  to  take  his  pint 
of  beer,  and  he  might  come  round  again 
i6i 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

in  an  hour.  (O  bibulous  beadle,  is  this 
thine  hourly  custom  ?)  It  all  depended 
upon  what  he  had  to  do.  Some  days 
there  were  a  good  many  burials.  No 
beadle,  however,  was  forthcoming,  even 
after  long  lingering,  and  an  ascent  to 
his  room,  over  three  flights  of  breakneck 
stairs  ;  and  choosing  at  random  a  chyrch 
near  by  which  might  divulge  hidden 
information,  we  went  to  Saint  Margaret 
Pattens,  named  for  the  patten-makers 
who  long  ago  flourished  there,  and  rich 
in  a  store  of  old-time  memories.  The 
white  -  haired  rector  was  finishing  his 
daily  service  to  empty  benches ;  for, 
though  traffic  surges  about  this  and  its 
sister  churches  in  the  heart  of  the  City, 
it  is  rare  indeed  that  man  or  woman 
enters  one  of  them  to  seek  the  bread  of 
life.  They  have  their  religiously  pre- 
served carvings,  their  precious  organs, 
their  careful  service ;  they  go  quietly 
beating  on,  like  a  jeweled  timepiece  in 
the  clothes  of  a  beggar,  and  afar  off, 
but  ominous,  sounds  the  howl  of  "  Dis- 
establishment !  " 

This   gentleman   was   not   the  rector 
of  Saint  Margaret  Pattens,  protested  an 
inner  voice,  when  finally  he  was  ready  to 
162 


THE  QUEST   OF  A   CUP 

speak  with  the  strangers.  He  was  Trol- 
lope's  gentle  "  Warden." 

"  Have  you  given  up  that  old  and  lov- 
ing habit  of  fingering  your  imaginary 
violoncello  .-•  "  one  refrained  with  diffi- 
culty from  asking.  "  Has  Archdeacon 
Grantly  frowned  it  down,  and  is  he  at 
this  moment  waiting  for  you  at  home, 
to  broach  some  scheme  of  advancement 
in  which  your  cleanly  soul  will  not  con- 
cur ? "  The  Warden  held,  as  it  hap- 
pily proved,  the  key  to  difficulty  the 
first.  Saint  Michael's  parish  had,  he  said 
at  once,  been  merged  in  Saint  Magnus's, 
and  doubtless  took  all  its  property  with 
it.  But  if  we  were  interested  in  the 
Boar's  Head,  should  we  not  also  like  to 
see  an  entry  in  Saint  Margaret's  vestry 
accounts,  of  the  sixteenth  century,  prov- 
ing that  it  found  the  tavern  a  comforta- 
ble neighbor  ?  From  an  old  oaken  chest 
he  drew  a  volume,  its  leather  covers  worn 
rough  by  time,  its  pages  yellowed  and 
stained  by  years,  if  not  from  use. 

"//«  paide  for  our  dynners  on  St. 
Andrewse  Day  at  the  Bores  Hedde  i8s. 

ed." 

He   it  was   who   suggested   that   the 
parcel-gUt  goblet  was  not  a  sacramental 
163 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

cup,  but  rather  one  used  by  the  vestry 
in  its  business  meetings,  which  had  also 
a  convivial  character.  Such  cups  were 
known  as  "  masers,"  and  might  be  either 
of  metal  or  of  wood,  carved,  and  orna- 
mented with  silver  and  gold.  An  allu- 
sion of  the  sixteenth  century  to  another 
vessel  describes  it  as  "a  great  cuppe, 
brode  and  deepe,  such  as  great  masers 
were  wont  to  be."  These  vessels,  true 
loving-cups,  were  highly  valued  by  the 
fortunate  owners,  whether  individuals  or 
corporations.  The  Warden  would  not 
hear  of  thanks.  Old  customs  were  his 
delight,  he  protested,  and  of  all  the 
phantasms  of  this  changing  world  they 
best  rewarded  pursuit.  He  had  even 
revived  in  his  own  church  the  ancient 
ceremony  of  "  beating  the  bounds."  The 
children  of  the  parish  marched  out  in 
due  form  and  beat  with  wands  the 
parish  boundaries  ;  but  so  changed  had 
the  region  become  since  the  days  when 
such  geography  lessons  were  of  ordi- 
nary occurrence,  and  building  had  not 
smothered  God's  earth,  that  one  child 
had  to  be  let  down  from  a  window  into 
a  closed  court,  to  touch  with  his  wand 
a  separating  point.  But  O  times  and 
164 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  CUP 

manners  !  that  ye  have  changed  is  patent 
in  the  fact  that  whereas  such  occasions 
served  of  old  as  pretext  for  reveHng, 
to-day  but  one  friendly  baker  regaled 
the  beaters  with  buns  and  lemonade. 
Where  are  the  cakes  and  ale  whereon 
they  feasted  once  from  door  to  door? 
Gone,  with  bear-baitings,  new  plays  on 
Bankside,  mouth-filling  oaths,  and  good 
Queen  Bess. 

With  that  day  and  the  farewell  cour- 
tesies of  the  gentle  Warden  ended  our 
quest.  It  even  hung  fire  over  the  sum- 
mer, for  an  appeal  by  letter  to  the 
"  fair  parish  church  of  Saint  Magnus  " 
elicited  the  fact  that  it  was  undergoing 
repair,  and  was  therefore  in  no  condition 
for  visitors.  Thus  it  happened  that  it 
was  only  a  few  days  before  sailing  for 
America  that  we  entered  the  little  ves- 
try, and  caught  at  once  from  the  window 
a  sight  more  to  be  desired  than  the  free- 
dom of  the  city  in  a  box  of  gold.  There, 
hemmed  in  by  walls,  lies  a  small  patch 
of  green,  its  one  ornament  the  Purbeck 
stone  once  in  Saint  Michael's  churchyard 
to  tell  the  virtues  of  Robert  Preston, 
and  now  sojourning  with  Saint  Magnus, 
still  to  rehearse  his  fame. 
165 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

"Bacchus,  to  give  the  toping  world  surprise, 
Produced  one  sober  son,  and  here  he  lies. 
Though  reared  among  full  hogsheads,  he  defy'd 
The  charms  of  wine,  and  every  one  beside. 
O  reader,  if  to  justice  thou'rt  inclined. 
Keep  honest  Preston  daily  in  thy  mind. 
He  drew  good  wine,  took  care  to  fill  his  pots, 
Had  sundry  virtues  that  excused  his  faults. 
You  that  on  Bacchus  have  the  like  dependence, 
Pray  copy  Bob  in  measure  and  attendance." 

Truly,  it  is  good  to  touch  with  rever- 
ent finger  each  link  of  a  golden  past :  to 
renew  our  fondness  for  the  motherland 
by  thumbing  over  the  pages  of  her  story  ! 
The  rector  of  Saint  Magnus  dallied  with 
our  impatience,  and  proffered  many  a 
fillip  to  the  appetite  before  he  would 
produce  the  nightingales'  tongues  and 
ortolans  of  the  feast.  We  must  see  his 
church,  redolent  of  memories  ancient  and 
wonderful,  and  the  tablet  to  Miles  Cov- 
erdale,  wherein  the  godly  and  learned 
do  much  delight.  We  must  even  try 
his  organ.  But  at  length  returned  to 
the  vestry  room,  there  appeared  a  sex- 
ton, penetrated  to  the  soul  with  the  im- 
portance of  every  detail  connected  with 
the  Establishment ;  and  in  his  hands 
he  bore  two  boxes,  one  of  wood,  and 
the  other  the  identical  tobacco-box  of 
Irving's  quest,  —  the  same,  yet  different 
1 66 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  CUP 

in  the  fresh  glory  of  paint  probably 
applied  in  1861,  for,  as  the  inscription 
relates,  it  was  then  repaired  anew.  Now 
be  it  understood  that  there  had  been 
throughout  little  talk  of  the  goblet,  but 
much  of  this  box  from  which  the  church- 
wardens once  filled  their  innocent  pipes. 
It  was  impossible  to  refer  honestly  to 
the  former  treasure  in  any  way  except 
as  a  memento  of  Mrs,  Quickly ;  and 
would  even  the  daring  scion  of  an  ag- 
gressive land  approach  a  reverend  in- 
cumbent of  the  English  Church  with  a 
mention  of  that  amiable  but  never  con- 
ventional woman,  painful  antithesis  to  the 
British  matron  ?  Perish  the  thought ! 
Rather  wait,  hoping  that  box  and  goblet 
had  drifted  down  the  stream  of  years 
still  together,  and  that  the  same  incom- 
ing wave  would  sweep  them  to  the  trav- 
elers' feet.  With  a  slow  seriousness 
befitting  the  occasion  the  wooden  box 
was  opened,  and  there,  in  a  green  baize 
seclusion,  lay  the  goblet  of  our  dreams. 
The  moment  had  come,  and  triumph- 
antly it  crowned  endeavor.  No  one  who 
has  seen  that  cup  can  doubt  for  a  mo- 
ment that  it  certainly  is  the  one  illu- 
minated by  the  sea-coal  fire  that  day 
167 


BY   OAK  AND  THORN 

when  Falstaff  swore  his  perishable  oath. 
It  is  of  a  goodly  shape,  with  a  standard 
and  a  generous  bowl.  It  is  lined  with 
gold,  "parcel-gilt,"  and  the  silver  exte- 
rior is  decorated  with  fanciful  little  fig- 
ures in  outline,  shaped  somewhat  like 
Prince  Rupert  drops.  About  the  foot 
runs  the  inscription.  Ex  dono  Fraficisci 
Wythers  Armigeri. 

There  is  an  actual  possibility  con- 
nected with  this  relic  which  is  hardly  to 
be  considered  without  excitement.  The 
cup,  we  are  told,  was  in  the  first  part  of 
this  century  "very  '  antyke.'  "  What  is 
more  probable  than  that  William  Shake- 
speare, in  his  social  evenings  at  the  tav- 
ern where  it  was  kept,  was  a  welcome 
guest  of  Saint  Michael's  vestry,  what 
time  the  cup  went  round  and  beards 
wagged  all  ?  The  parcel-gilt  goblet  was 
ever  held  in  high  esteem,  whenever  it 
was  first  received,  and  it  is  easy  to  be- 
lieve it  formed  a  part  of  the  church 
property  before  1597,  the  earliest  date 
to  be  assigned  King  Henry  IV.  That 
possibility  once  assumed,  the  mind  runs 
riot  in  conjecture,  and  almost  loses  its 
balance  in  a  mad  chase  after  the  thistle- 
down of  circumstantial  proof.  Who  was 
1 68 


THE  QUEST  OF  A   CUP 

Sir  Francis  Wythers  ?  When  was  he 
christened,  married,  or  where  did  he  die  ? 
A  list  of  tombstones  and  tablets  from 
Saint  Michael's  contains  not  his  name. 
Its  register  of  christenings,  marriages, 
and  burials,  beginning  in  1538,  holds  no 
reference  to  him.  Did  he  belong  to 
some  other  parish,  which  keeps  in  hid- 
ing the  record  of  his  life,  waiting  for  a 
lucky  finder,  that  prince  whose  lot  it  is 
to  succeed  after  the  many  fail,  or  did  he 
go  to  the  wars  with  Falstaff,  to  receive 
burial  "  unhousel'd,  disappointed,  un- 
anel'd".?  —  for  it  is  difficult  to  avoid  a 
strange  mingling  of  the  poetical  and 
real  in  such  a  quest.  Was  he  one  of  the 
Lancashire  Withers,  a  family  adorned 
by  George  Wither,  the  poet,  and  of 
whose  founder  mention  is  made  in  the 
reign  of  Edward  II. .?  "  What 's  become 
of  Waring  ? "  is  no  more  crucial  prob- 
lem, no  blinder  scent,  than  that  con- 
nected with  this  elusive  donor  of  a  cup. 
The  ingenious  mind  will  suggest  that 
there  may  be  some  mention  of  goblet 
or  giver  in  Saint  Michael's  audit  books. 
Even  so  small  a  matter  as  paying  for 
the  inscription,  if  that  were  not  done 
until  after  the  presentation,  would  surely 
169 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

be  mentioned.  Vain  hope !  The  earli- 
est parochial  book  is  dated  1617,  and 
has  nothing  to  say  on  the  subject.  It 
does,  however,  contain  two  references 
to  the  Boar's  Head,  which  are  of  some 
interest,  like  every  trifle  touching  that 
wonder-breeding  spot. 

I,  for  one,  am  determined  to  assume 
that  the  cup  has  met  the  eye  of  Shake- 
speare, and  was  even  touched  by  his 
good  right  hand.  I  shall  never  allow 
the  true  delight  of  literary  pilgrimage 
to  be  spoiled  by  too  close  adherence  to 
possible  fact.  In  the  ideal  suppositions 
of  life  lie  its  paramount  charms.  He 
is  a  happy  man,  gifted  with  the  truest 
wisdom,  who  sees  in  every  thorn-tree  at 
Glastonbury  a  scion  of  the  olden  one, 
who  can  bare  his  head  in  memory  of 
King  Arthur  at  each  of  the  several 
places  claiming  the  crown  of  Camelot, 
and  people  the  land  with  brave  men  and 
fair  women  who,  as  the  learned  tell  us, 
were  never  more  than  "such  stuff  as 
dreams  are  made  on." 

Shakespeare  dearly  loved   to  harness 

every-day  events  to  the  car  of  poesy ;  to 

fit  a  cart-horse  out  with  wings,  and  bid 

him  godspeed  in  playing  Pegasus.    When 

170 


THE  QUEST  OF  A   CUP 

Titania  describes  a  strange  confusion  of 
the  seasons,  and  the  resulting  evils  to 
man  and  beast,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  the  poet  had  in  mind  the  year  1 594, 
when  "the  spring  was  very  unkind,  by 
means  of  the  abundance  of  rain  that  fell. 
Our  July  hath  been  like  to  a  Febru- 
ary ;  our  June  even  as  an  April :  so  that 
the  air  must  needs  be  infected."  That 
immortal  speech  of  Bottom,  wherein  he 
entreats  the  ladies  not  to  tremble,  since 
he  is  no  lion,  but  "a  man  as  other  men 
are,"  has  its  prototype  in  an  incident, 
probably  of  Shakespeare's  own  time, 
which  is  recorded  in  a  collection  enti- 
tled Merry  Passages  and  Jests  :  — 

"There  was  a  spectacle  presented  to 
Queen  Elizabeth  upon  the  water,  and 
among  others  Harry  Goldingham  was 
to  represent  Arion  upon  the  Dolphin's 
backe ;  but  finding  his  voice  to  be  verye 
hoarse  and  unpleasant  when  he  came  to 
perform  it,  he  tears  off  his  disguise,  and 
swears  he  was  none  of  Arion,  not  he, 
but  even  honest  Harry  Goldingham." 

Face-painting,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots 

and   her  siren   arts,  the   dancing  horse 

(a  justly  celebrated  wonder  of  the  poet's 

time),  a  fool's   leap   into   a  custard  to 

171 


BY  OAK  AND   THORN 

excite  the  popular  mirth,  the  "  little 
eyases "  of  Saint  Paul's  Cathedral,  who 
became  stage  favorites,  to  be  strongly 
and  somewhat  jealously  censured  by 
legitimate  players,  —  dozens  of  contem- 
porary allusions  illustrate  his  royal  and 
prodigal  way  of  sweeping  up  the  dust 
from  the  path  of  every-day  life  and  using 
it  for  ornament  of  his  pageants. 

The  "parcel-gilt  goblet  at  the  Boar's 
Head,"  —  a  careless  mention,  fit  only  to 
cause  a  passing  smile  on  such  lips  as 
had  merrily  touched  its  brim,  but  to  us, 
cold  under  the  long  shadows  of  too  late 
a  day,  pregnant  with  wondrous  meaning. 
For  to  have  looked  upon  what  Shake- 
speare saw,  though  it  be  but  the  infi- 
nitely removed  descendants  of  the  daisies 
that  bloomed  at  Stratford  three  centu- 
ries ago,  to  have  held  what  his  hand 
once  touched,  is  to  have  found  one  vivi- 
fying crumb  left  from  that  high  feast 
when  every  man 

"put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest, 
And  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life." 

172 


AN  UNRESISTED  TEMPTATION 

The  first  significant  point  of  our 
Warwickshire  pilgrimage  was  Coventry 
(I  refrain  with  some  difficulty  from 
the  qualifying  "three-spired,"  since  the 
guide-books  have  made  it  all  their  own), 
and  here  an  ancient  dame,  little  guess- 
ing that  graver  matters  occupied  my 
thoughts,  insisted  on  stopping  us  in  the 
street,  and  pointing  out  the  head  of 
Peeping  Tom.  "  Go  to,  thou  'rt  naught ! " 
I  could  have  said,  for  my  mind  was  busy 
painting  itself  a  picture  of  Falstaff's 
scarecrow  army,  as  it  marched  hereby 
to  the  battlefield  where  the  immortal 
Jack  vicariously  slew  Hotspur,  after 
fighting  that  "long  hour  by  Shrewsbury 
clock."  Once  begin  to  imagine  that 
tattered  and  straggling  host,  and  you 
will  perforce  dismiss  the  Lady  Godiva, 
though  with  a  reverent  mind,  and  con- 
sider not  architecture,  albeit  three  or 
thirty  spires  insistently  call :  —  an  army 
of  such  as  "were  never  soldiers,  but 
discarded,  unjust  serving-men,  younger 
173 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

sons  to  younger  brothers,  revolted  tap- 
sters, and  ostlers  tradefallen ;  the  can- 
kers of  a  calm  world,  and  a  long  peace ; 
...  a  hundred  and  fifty  tattered  prodi- 
gals, lately  come  from  swine-keeping, 
from  eating  draff  and  husks."  More- 
over, an  army  which  needed  not  the 
outfit  of  shirts,  since,  like  Autolycus  of 
blessed  memory,  it  could  "find  linen 
enough  on  every  hedge."  But  not 
always  may  you  stay  to  hobnob  with 
fat  Jack;  a  wandering  life  has  many 
secondary  joys  in  fee,  and  presently,  in 
sober  and  practical  fashion,  we  engaged 
a  carriage  to  take  us  to  the  salient 
spots  of  George  Eliot's  Warwickshire 
sojourn.  Now  for  my  own  part,  I  do 
so  heartily  agree  with  her  relatives  and 
friends  in  their  distaste  for  the  prying 
tourist  who  would  fain  make  his  way 
into  their  gardens  and  bedrooms — nay, 
into  their  very  linen-chests,  in  search 
of  the  table-cloths  woven  by  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver  herself  "and  bleached  so  beautiful," 
and  marked  "  so  as  nobody  ever  saw 
such  marking,"  —  that  it  would  take  a 
strong  temptation  to  draw  me  into  such 
forbidden  ways.  (The  temptation  came, 
in  good  time,  let  me  whisper,  and  I 
174 


AN  UNRESISTED  TEMPTATION 

succumbed  to  it,  and  was  glad !)  But 
it  is  an  ever-growing  delight  to  me  to 
look  on  the  same  tract  of  earth  and 
the  very  outline  of  tree  and  roof  which 
once  fed  the  gaze  of  heroes.  Think  of 
the  country  about  Stratford  and  its 
influence  on  the  mind  of  Master  Will 
Shakespeare,  reputed  poacher,  and  lover 
of  Anne  Hathaway,  —  the  fruitful  earth 
and  ever  responsive  leafage,  the  hedges, 
lavish  of  bloom,  the  still-flowing  streams, 
great  sky-spaces  and  far  horizon ;  must 
they  not  so  have  nourished  and  calmed 
that  great  spirit  that  it  could  thereafter 
express  itself  from  a  state  of  serene 
healthfulness  only  to  be  attained  in  fit- 
ful moods  by  one  suffocated  in  mining 
damps  and  glooms,  or  depressed  by  the 
gray  wastes  of  Lincolnshire?  And  so, 
in  tracing  the  steps  of  this  woman- 
genius,  it  was  enough  to  look  at  the 
outside  of  the  Coventry  School  where 
she  was  a  shy  and  earnest  student,  or 
at  Rosehill,  happy  scene  of  her  friend- 
ship with  the  Brays,  without  in  the 
least  desiring  entrance,  and  then  to 
drive  on  to  Griff  House,  where  almost 
a  quarter  -  century  of  her  youth  was 
passed. 

175 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

During  the  progress  of  the  road  from 
Coventry  to  Nuneaton,  Warwickshire 
displays  a  thoughtful  and  sober  face. 
The  earth  is  harder  and  more  unyield- 
ing than  at  flowery  Stratford.  No 
longer  does  it  smile  unreservedly.  Coal 
dust  has  here  and  there  begrimed  it ; 
and  at  intervals  a  bare  and  ugly  chimney 
points  upward  a  sooty  finger  in  derisive 
challenge  to  the  "whip  of  the  skies." 
At  a  glance,  one  reads  here  the  earth- 
doom  and  history,  —  the  tale  of  unre- 
mitting toil.  In  sweet  farming  regions 
man  may  be  baptized  in  his  own  sweat 
and  made  drunk  by  his  own  tears,  but 
the  gracious  and  deceitful  earth  only 
smiles  the  more,  and  makes  his  home  an 
outer  paradise,  so  that  the  thoughtless 
onlooker  is  glad  for  him,  and  fancies 
the  poetic  content  of  days  spent  in  his 
picturesque  (and  mildewed)  thatched  cot- 
tage. But  here  the  harder  phases  of 
living  make  themselves  rudely  apparent, 
and  who  can  doubt  that  George  Eliot 
read  from  them  her  first  gospel  of  the 
trouble  of  life } 

Now,   John,    our  driver    that   day,   a 
most   serious  man  who  talked  as  if  he 
might  have  been  an  intimate  acquaint- 
176 


AN   UNRESISTED   TEMPTATION 

ance  of  the  Great  Lexicographer,  was 
impressed  with  a  wholesome  fear  of  Mr. 
Isaac  Evans,  George  Eliot's  brother. 
According  to  him,  this  gentleman  had 
suffered  much  from  the  settling  of 
tourists  upon  his  roof-tree,  very  like 
the  plagues  of  ancient  Egypt ;  and  we 
could  imagine  that  he  had  threatened 
our  conscientious  John  with  dire  ven- 
geance, should  he  ever  bring  such  har- 
pies that  way  again.  "All  hail  to  thee 
for  a  sensible  man,  O  brother  of  the 
great ! "  we  ejaculated  mentally.  "  Not 
for  worlds  would  we  invade  thy  peace  !  " 

"  You  can  walk  inside  the  grounds," 
said  John,  drawing  up  before  Griff 
House.  "  He  won't  mind  that.  But 
please,  miss,  don't  go  into  the  house  !  " 

Go  into  the  house,  like  a  monster 
made  out  of  Paul  Pry  and  Peeping  Tom ! 
Though  American,  we  were  not  of  that 
mould,  and  it  was  only  after  repeated 
urgings  from  the  box  that  we  alighted, 
and  like  cats  in  a  cream-rich  pantry, 
took  a  few  cautious  steps  into  the  trim 
door-yard  in  front  of  the  comfortable 
brick  house.  And  there  temptation  laid 
for  our  feet  its  first  cobweb  snare.  A 
woman,  a  very  decent  serving-woman, 
177 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

came  walking  down  the  path,  and  to 
her  we  weakly  apologized  for  our  pres- 
ence, adding  that  we  were  from  over-sea, 
and  that  we  could  not  resist  looking  upon 
the  spot  where  George  Eliot  was  born. 

"  She  was  n't  born  here,"  said  this 
sympathetic  and  kindly  soul,  "she  was 
born  at  Arbury  Farm,  though  she  did 
live  here  for  many  years." 

This  was  a  blow.  We  had  wasted  our 
emotions,  we  had  wept  and  applauded 
in  the  wrong  place,  and  after  a  further 
exchange  of  civilities  we  returned  to  the 
carriage  and.  taxed  John  with  having 
made  a  mistake.  (For,  to  our  shame 
be  it  confessed,  Baedeker  had  that  day 
been  left  behind,  and  memory  proved 
but  a  yielding  staff.)  And  thereupon 
he  waxed  so  emphatic,  declaring  that 
everybody  knew  Griff  House  to  be  the 
birthplace  of  Mary  Ann  Evans,  and, 
moreover,  he  looked  so  like  a  local 
oracle,  destined  to  develop  into  an  Old- 
est Inhabitant,  that  we  knew  not  what 
to  think,  and,  perplexed  and  depressed, 
drove  on  to  Chilvers  Coton,  the  Shep- 
perton  of  the  "  Scenes  from  Clerical 
Life." 

Chilvers  Coton,  a  suburb  of  dull, 
178 


AN   UNRESISTED   TEMPTATION 

workaday  Nuneaton,  is  not  a  place  to 
invite  the  eye.  It  is,  indeed,  "a  flat, 
ugly  district  .  .  .  depressing  enough  to 
look  at  even  on  the  brightest  days," 
and  the  little  commonplace  church  is 
close  neighbor  to  a  crowded  yard  of 
"  the  happy  dead  people."  The  building 
was  locked,  and  thereupon  we  besieged 
the  comfortable,  old-fashioned  vicarage, 
to  ask  for  the  key,  A  trim,  rosy  maid 
appeared  at  the  door,  and  took  the 
words  from  our  mouths.  "The  key, 
miss .''  Yes,  miss.  And  perhaps  you 
wish  to  see  Milly's  grave ! "  So  in  a 
half -dream  we  entered  the  little  homely 
structure,  and  walked  into  the  very  pew 
where  Mary  Ann  Evans  used  to  sit,  in 
those  years  when,  as  she  confesses, 
"  my  nurse  found  it  necessary  to  provide 
for  the  reenforcement  of  my  devotional 
patience,  by  smuggling  bread  and  butter 
into  the  sacred  edifice."  The  improve- 
ments she  once  deplored  as  having 
marred  the  picture  retained  by  her 
childish  memory  have  yet  left  the 
church  very  quaint  and  characteristic ; 
the  pews  are  old-fashioned,  the  gal- 
leries delightful.  It  is  easy  to  feel  in 
that  atmosphere  as  if  one  were  within 
179 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

a  very  few  layers  of  the  heart  of 
country  life.  Then  out  into  the  church- 
yard again,  where,  surrounded  by  a 
high  railing  and  weighted  with  a  heavy 
tombstone,  lies  the  grave  of  Emma 
Gwyther,  who  died  at  thirty-four,  and 
whose  sad  fortunes  were  mirrored  in 
those  of  Milly  Barton,  We  left  the  spot, 
touched  and  saddened,  as  one  who  has 
looked  on  some  most  sacred  relic  of  the 
past;  wherever  Mary  Ann  Evans  was 
born,  we  had  at  least  read  here  one 
chapter  of  her  thoughtful,  image-storing 
childhood.  Thereupon,  like  a  persistent 
insect,  came  buzzing  back  the  forgotten 
question,  "  Marry,  where  was  she  born .-' " 
Not  that  it  made  any  difference,  since 
she  once  walked  among  us,  but  that  the 
spirit  of  investigation  forbade  inglori- 
ous defeat.  And  then  it  was  that  a 
new  version  of  Launcelot  Gobbo's  im- 
mortal dialogue  between  conscience  and 
the  fiend  was  again  enacted,  and  with 
the  world-old  result.  "  Run  !  "  cried  the 
fiend  in  conclusion,  and  we  said  to  our 
driver,  "Back  to  Griff  House!"  set 
our  lips  and  abided  the  event.  I  think 
John  must  have  suspected  us  of  contem- 
plating some  deed  of  darkness,  for  he 
1 80 


AN  UNRESISTED  TEMPTATION 

was  in  his  turn  resolute  of  countenance, 
as  if,  should  Mr,  Evans  charge  upon  the 
besiegers,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
fly,  hot-foot,  to  Coventry,  leaving  us  in 
the  lurch.  But  prudence  had  been  quite 
abandoned  with  decorum,  and  walking 
up  to  the  teeth  of  the  enemy,  we 
knocked  for  admittance  at  the  door  of 
Griff  House.  Then  appeared  again  the 
decent  serving  -  woman,  and  we  threw 
ourselves  on  her  mercy.  We  were  tossed 
about  by  winds  of  doctrine;  would  she 
tell  us  her  grounds  for  saying  that  Mary 
Ann  Evans  was  not  born  here  }  She 
smiled,  as  if  it  made  very  little  differ- 
ence, and  yet  indulgently,  as  one  might 
over  the  vagaries  of  uneasy  Americans, 
inclined  to  spend  their  nervous  energy 
in  fighting  windmills  and  hunting  lions, 
and  repeated  her  tale.  But  in  the  midst 
of  it  she  stopped  to  listen,  evidently  to 
a  call  from  within,  and,  after  a  word  of 
apology,  hastened  up  the  stairs.  She 
was  soon  back  again,  this  time  bearing 
a  message.  '*  Miss  Evans  says  you  may 
walk  in  the  garden,  miss,  if  you  like." 
(Poor  Miss  Evans !  should  we  take  this 
as  the  spontaneous  impulse  of  a  kindly 
heart,  or  was  it  a  sop  thrown  to  un- 
i8i 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

known  barbarians,  whom  she  expected 
presently  in  her  bed  -  chamber  ?)  At 
all  events,  we  stayed  not  to  question 
motives,  but  betook  ourselves,  with  our 
gentle-mannered  guide,  to  a  fascinating 
old-fashioned  garden  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  and  there  it  was  that  an  excit- 
ing and  terrible  event  befell.  For  she 
suddenly  exclaimed,  in  an  undertone, 
"  There  is  Mr.  Evans  himself !  You 
can  ask  him  where  she  was  born  !  "  and 
fled,  leaving  us  in  the  presence  of  a 
tall,  powerful  man,  clad  in  gray,  and 
pushing  a  lawn  -  mower.  There  was 
nothing  for  us  to  do  but  flee  also,  or 
brazenly  advance ;  to  our  everlasting 
discredit,  be  it  recorded  that  we  chose 
the  latter  and  ignoble  course.  Now,  I 
confess  that  when  I  fell  into  talk  with 
this  quiet  English  land-agent,  it  was 
from  a  mood  as  uplifted  and  delirious 
as  that  of  one  who  should  "  see  Shelley 
plain,"  for  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  that 
here,  in  the  flesh,  was  Tom  Tulliver, 
honest,  stanch,  indomitable  of  will,  — 
yet  not  of  wide  vision  and  ever  con- 
scious of  his  own  infallibility.  ("And 
the  worst  of  it  is,"  once  said  a  clever 
woman,  "that  he  not  only  thought  so, 
182 


AN  UNRESISTED   TEMPTATION 

but  according  to  recognized  standards 
Tom  always  was  right,")  This  was  the 
man  with  whose  being  George  Eliot's 
own  was  knit  during  the  most  plastic 
period  of  her  life,  who  could  admit  her 
to  the  highest  heaven  of  happiness,  as 
Tom  had  ever  the  power  of  doing  in 
his  intercourse  with  Maggie,  and  whose 
disapproval,  even  over  so  small  a  matter 
as  the  jam  puffs,  would  poison  the  very 
fountain  of  her  content.  This  was  he 
of  whom  she  wrote, 

"  My  doll  seemed  lifeless,  and  no  girlish  toy 
Had  any  reason,  when  my  brother  came." 

It  was  Tom,  the  real  or  imagined 
Tom,  who  praised  her  because,  in  a 
moment  of  still  and  happy  dreaming,  she 
caught  a  big  fish,  and  learned  thereby 
how  "luck  is  with  glory  wed."  It  was 
Tom  who  was  separated  from  her  by 
that  awful  soul-distance  brought  about 
by  "  the  dire  years ; "  who  perchance 
condemned  where  he  could  not  under- 
stand, and  drew  from  her  at  length  the 
home-sick  cry, 

"  But  were  another  childhood-world  my  share, 
I  would  be  bom  a  little  sister  there." 

Here,  for  all  present  purposes,  was 
Tom  Tulliver,  gray-bearded,  with  keen 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

yet  kindly  gray  eyes  and  a  slow  sad 
voice,  —  and  oh,  wonder  !  with  George 
Eliot's  own  Dante  nose.  Do  you  remem- 
ber when  sweet  Mary  Seraskier  came 
back  to  Peter  Ibbetson  from  the  outer, 
or  mayhap  the  inner  world,  how  he 
tried  so  vainly,  in  his  waking  moments, 
to  recall  her  utterances,  and  put  them 
into  the  language  of  every-day  thought 
and  speech  ?  Thus  it  happened  when  I 
talked  with  Tom  Tulliver.  I  meant,  for 
my  own  after-delight,  to  remember  his 
phrasing  exactly  as  it  left  his  lips,  but  I 
can  only  repeat  it  now,  hopelessly  Amer- 
icanized. 

"  No,  she  was  not  born  here,"  he  said. 
"  She  was  born  at  Arbury  Farm,  and 
brought  here  when  she  was  but  six 
months  old." 

"  And  which  was  her  window  ?  Where 
is  her  room } " 

"  Why,  she  was  everywhere  about  the 
house,"  he  answered,  in  his  ponderous 
fashion.     "  She /wed  here." 

But  it  was  evident  that  the  George 
Eliot  of  universal  fame  was  less  to  him 
than  the  little  sister  whose  "  tiny  shoe  " 
he  had  guide4  over  the  stepping-stones, 
so  many  years  agone.  He  was  half 
184 


AN   UNRESISTED   TEMPTATION 

touched,  half  perplexed  that  we  should 
be  thus  moved  over  the  traces  of  their 
vanished  youth. 

"  You  came  from  America  ? "  he  asked. 
"It's  a  long  way." 

And  then,  when  we  stammeringly 
tried  to  tell  him  how  we  had  first  of  all 
sought  Shakespeare's  home,  inevitably 
to  make  this  the  second  step  in  our 
pilgrimage  of  praise  and  worship,  his 
reserve  seemed  to  break  up,  as  if,  she 
being  dead,  he  would  thank  the  humblest 
soul  for  having  loved  her. 

"And  you've  been  to  the  church.?" 
he  asked.  "  Ah,  they  've  altered  it ! 
You  may  see  the  pew  where  she  used  to 
sit,  but  in  those  days  its  walls  were  so 
high  that  she  had  to  stand  up  on  the 
seat  to  see  the  singers."  (Still  dream- 
ing over  the  child,  and  not  the  girl  or 
woman !  Did  she  know,  and  was  it  an 
abiding  joy  that  ever,  in  the  home  of  his 
mind,  she  dwelt  "a  little  sister"  ?) 

Needless  to  say  that  we  did  not  linger, 
afraid  of  outstaying  his  tolerance. 

"And  you  will  go  to  Arbury  Farm."*" 
he  asked,  adding,  after  full  directions  for 
finding  it,  "Tell  them  I  sent  you." 

We  left  him  in  his  garden  and  wan- 
185 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

dered  at  will  for  a  moment,  casting  un- 
seeing eyes  at  the  farm  buildings  and 
populous  yard,  where  little  Maggie  light- 
heartedly  trudged  about,  or  brooded  over 
the  "bitter  sorrows  of  childhood." 

It  was  all  so  faithful,  so  real !  and 
nothing  more  so  than  the  true  present- 
ment of  Tom,  grown  to  man's  estate. 
This  was  the  apex  of  human  experi- 
ence, so  far  as  our  present  quest  was 
concerned ;  not  only  could  we  imagine 
the  outer  life  of  the  fine  spirit  forever 
vanished,  but  we  had  seen  him  who  was 
so  responsible  for  a  vast  part  of  its 
emotional  stress.  Yet  there  was,  and 
is  to-day,  a  bitter  drop  in  that  jeweled 
cup ;  we  had  behaved  like  the  tradi- 
tional American  whose  gospel  is  "  Push," 
and  had  earned  thereby  the  condemna- 
tion pronounced  upon  such  from  of  old 
by  the  courteous  and  the  gentle.  One 
grace  only  was  left  in  us ;  we  kept  our 
own  counsel,  lest  other  intrusive  spirits, 
possibly  worse  than  the  first,  should  re- 
peat our  deed,  and  still  further  persecute 
our  patient  host.  But  time  and  fate 
between  them  have  taken  the  seal  from 
our  lips,  —  for  the  master  of  Griff  House 
is  dead. 

i86 


LATTER-DAY   CRANFORD 

It  is  the  eccentric  dower  of  some  to 
grow  quite  as  hot-headed  and  tremulous 
over  a  prospective  needle  in  a  haymow 
as  ever  Midas  could  have  been  on 
receiving  his  gift.  To  such,  Knutsford, 
in  Cheshire,  offers  a  perfect  hunting- 
ground  for  that  sort  of  plunder  so 
humorously  resembling  Gratiano's  rea- 
sons :  "  You  shall  seek  all  day  ere  you 
find  them ;  and  when  you  have  them, 
they  are  not  worth  the  search."  No 
more  satisfying  occupation  can  be  in- 
vented in  this  ancient  world  than  the 
pursuit  of  what  does  not  absolutely  ex- 
ist, if  only  the  hunter  be  just  credulous 
enough ;  bold  in  belief,  yet  "  not  too 
bold."  He  must  cling  to  his  guesswork 
with  a  dauntless  zeal ;  at  the  same  time 
he  shall,  for  his  own  ease,  recognize 
the  probable  futility  of  such  doggedness. 
For  to  reconstruct  a  habitation  on  the 
base  of  some  foregone  romance  is  to 
strike  a  balance  between  special  disap- 
pointment and  a  vague  general  joy. 
187 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

The  present  Knutsford,  in  toto,  is 
emphatically  not  the  Cranford  of  Mrs. 
Gaskell's  homely  chronicle,  but  it  glit- 
ters with  links  of  similitude ;  moreover, 
a  certain  quaintness  all  its  own  is 
continually  stimulating  the  mind  to 
comparison  between  the  fancied  and 
the  real,  as  living  perfumes  summon 
forth  old  memories.  Here,  at  least, 
Mrs.  Gaskell  was  a  child,  the  little 
Elizabeth  Cleghorn  Stevenson,  storing 
up  fragmentary  impressions  easily  re- 
traced by  one  who  has  lived  even  a  full 
day  in  the  town ;  here  she  was  married, 
and  in  the  green  and  pleasant  yard  of 
the  old  Unitarian  Chapel  she  lies,  with 
her  husband,  under  lilies  of  the  valley 
and  the  constant  evergreen.  The  pros- 
pect of  figuring  in  biography  was  never 
quite  to  her  taste,  and  the  simple  facts 
of  her  life  offer  little  temptation  to 
literary  gossip-mongers.  Her  mother 
was  a  Holland,  of  the  family  repre- 
sented now  by  Lord  Knutsford.  Little 
Elizabeth  was  born  at  Chelsea  in  1810, 
and  it  was  after  her  mother's  death  that 
she  was  sent  to  live  with  Mrs.  Lurab,  a 
widowed  aunt,  at  Knutsford,  where  she 
remained  until  marriage  took  her  to  per- 
188 


LATTER-DAY   CRANFORD 

manent  residence  in  Manchester.  Both 
her  husband  and  her  father  were  Unita- 
rian clergymen,  and  one  can  guess  at 
her  own  gracious  influence  among  that 
slowly  growing  sect,  a  power  as  moving 
as  in  literature  and  the  practical  walks 
of  trade.  It  is  an  old  story  that  her 
fiction  taught  the  rich  some  of  those 
trenchant  lessons  known  at  first-hand 
only  by  the  poor ;  but  another  deed, 
more  golden  yet,  shall  be  remembered 
of  her,  —  the  creation  of  Cranford,  a 
book  to  be  loved  so  long  as  there  are 
smiles  and  tears  in  this  April  world. 
Who  could  aspire  to  uncover  its  living 
presentment  ?  One  might  as  well  hope, 
some  fortunate  London  hour,  to  stumble 
on  Queen  Bess  setting  forth  in  state  to 
bull-baiting  or  the  play. 

The  region  skirting  Knutsford  on 
every  hand  is  rich  in  memories,  but, 
better  still,  it  offers  a  loving  welcome 
to  the  eye.  It  is  a  placid,  smiling 
country,  diversified  by  great  estates  and 
happy  in  fat  farmlands.  Great  herds  of 
cows  idle  about,  given  over  to  that  in- 
dustry which  is  no  more  than  a  drowsy 
day-dream  ;  cropping  and  chewing,  and 
transmuting  the  riches  of  the  common 
189 


BY  OAK  AND   THORN 

sod  into  such  milk  and  cheese  as  need 
only  naming  for  praise.  Within  the 
circle  of  this  abounding  prosperity  lies 
the  little  town  (ford  of  the  great  Ca- 
nute, some  say,  with  reason),  a  lovable 
spot,  irregular  and  pleasing,  with  individ- 
ual corners  and  passages  covered  by  the 
dust  of  years,  and  dehghting  in  their 
burial.  It  is  presided  over  by  two 
precise  and  respectable  inns,  both  men- 
tioned "by  name"  in  Cranford.  So 
many  of  the  strings  of  trade  here  are 
held  by  women  that  it  is  still  approxi- 
mately, as  in  Cranford  days,  "in  pos- 
session of  the  Amazons."  No  state  of 
things  could  be  more  pleasing  to  us  who 
would  have  time  "stand  still  withal," 
and  on  the  strength  of  it  we  may 
undoubtedly  assume  that,  even  in  our 
present  year  of  grace,  "to  be  a  man" 
is,  in  this  delectable  place,  "to  be 
'vulgar.'" 

Our  course  thither  lay  through  Man- 
chester (Drumble),  where  we  made  brief 
halt  to  glance  at  the  Unitarian  Chapel, 
the  old  preaching-ground  of  the  Rev- 
erend William  Gaskell,  and  we  reached 
Knutsford  on  the  eve  of  a  festival 
calculated  to  rend  dear  Miss  Matty 
190 


LATTER-DAY   CRANFORD 

with  deeper  doubts  than  such  as  embit- 
tered her  first  half  -  hour  at  Signor 
Brunoni's  exhibition.  For  the  next 
afternoon  had  been  set  apart  for 
May-day  celebration,  and  Knutsford  was 
already  the  scene  of  a  wild  saturnalia. 
It  had  lost  its  head  in  anticipatory 
delirium.  It  was  baking  and  brewing 
for  a  probable  influx  of  visitors  by 
excursion  train.  The  very  air  was 
tinged  with  the  aroma  of  hot  cakes, 
and  landladies  who  on  any  other  day 
would  have  curtsied  profoundly  in 
Shenstonian  welcome,  actually  held  their 
door-stone  against  us  as  though  we 
were  marauding  Scots,  or  the  rogues 
and  vagabonds  of  a  later  interdict,  ex- 
plaining :  "  It 's  so  very,  very  awkward, 
miss,  but  to-morrow  I  shall  be  so  busy ; 
and  I  could  hardly  give  you  the  atten- 
tion I  should  wish.  I  'm  very  sorry, 
miss,  but  you  see  how  it  is,  miss,  I  'm 
sure  ;  "  with  that  ingratiating  lift  at  the 
end  of  the  sentence  so  commendable 
on  an  English  tongue. 

And  so  perforce  we  went  to  an  inn, 
choosing,  in  deference  to  Cranford  pre- 
judice,, one  under  the  firm  and  affable 
sway  of  two  ladies.      At  that   modest 
191 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

choice,  said  we,  the  Honorable  Mrs. 
Jamieson  would  have  been  the  better 
pleased.  All  that  evening  the  delirium 
of  hope  and  expectation  continued. 
Swings  had  been  erected  on  the  large 
open  space  still  known  as  "  the  Heath." 
Red-and-gold  gondolas,  cannily  set  upon 
springs,  were  gayly  sliding  about  in 
a  magic  circle,  —  a  lurid  Venice.  A 
strange  aerial  railway  consisted  of  one 
strong  wire  high  in  air ;  little  wheels 
with  handles  on  either  side  were 
arranged  to  fit  it,  and  Darby  or  Joan, 
holding  to  the  handles  with  desperate 
grip,  went  trundling  through  space  like 
gibbeted  criminals  taking  to  the  sky. 
The  company  of  psychologists  shall 
henceforth  be  augmented  by  the  man 
who  classifies  the  soul  according  to  the 
bodily  contortions  induced  by  an  aerial 
railway.  I  know  not  what  he  should 
be  called,  but  his  course  of  action  will 
be  plain.  Especially  in  the  case  of 
womankind  might  he  pronounce  an 
unerring  judgment,  —  for  some  among 
the  lassies  curled  their  dangling  feet 
decently  beneath  their  skirts,  some  let 
them  fly  amain  ;  others  swayed  like  wil- 
low wands ;  but  the  many  swept  on  their 
19a 


LATTER-DAY  CRANFORD 

playful  way  like  very  statues.  In  all 
there  was  one  strange  likeness :  they 
took  their  pleasure  "sadly,"  as  became 
true  Britons.  No  face  relaxed ;  not  a 
feature  gave  way  to  emotion  lighter 
than  a  rigid  determination  to  reach  the 
goal.  With  the  onlookers,  the  same 
seriousness  prevailed,  so  that  when  the 
transatlantic  observer  gave  way  to  hys- 
terics of  mirth,  she  was  regarded,  not 
frowningly,  but  with  a  solemn  com- 
passion which  was  in  itself  hopelessly 
upsetting.  And  over  all  the  din  of  de- 
corous joy  amid  which  the  Knutsford 
youth  thus  disported  itself  arose  the 
voice  of  china -venders  and  toy -mer- 
chants, the  cry  of  those  who  would  fain 
cloy  their  countrymen  with  gruesome 
lollipop  and  other  sweets,  made  only  to 
be  shunned.  Miss  Deborah  could  never 
have  approved !  We  tried  to  cloak  our 
delight  under  a  decent  thoughtfulness, 
and  went  home  to  bed.  I  think  we 
should  even  have  read  a  counter-irritating 
chapter  of  Rasselas  had  that  very  emi- 
nent work  been  at  hand. 

Next  day,  Knutsford  dissolved  in  rain, 
and  the  bakeries   may  well  have  wept 
also.     No  crowd  of  excursionists  to  race 
193 


BY  OAK  AND   THORN 

into  the  town  like  an  invading  flood, 
some  ripple  of  which  must  surely  inun- 
date the  humblest  eating-houses  !  They 
sank  beneath  their  sweets,  like  Tarpeia 
under  her  bribe,  and  the  cardboard  le- 
gend of  "Tea"  at  every  door  fell  into 
pulp  and  sadness.  We  too  had  hoped 
for  a  sunny  May-day  ;  but,  being  mortal, 
we  could  not  refrain  from  an  acrid  reflec- 
tion that  many  a  landlady  must  now  be 
repenting  her  short-sighted  refusal  of  us. 
Last  night  we  were  minnows,  for  there 
were  other  fish  in  the  sea.  To-day  we 
loomed  as  the  leviathan,  and  we  bore  our- 
selves proudly. 

Only  a  few  optimistic  citizens  had 
summoned  the  spirit  to  sand  the  side- 
walk in  front  of  their  houses,  an  ancient 
custom  once  accompanying  Knutsford 
weddings,  and  still  employed  on  days  of 
high  festival.  Still,  no  one  exerted  his 
genius  to  the  utmost ;  for  though  the 
sand  had  been  applied  in  patterns,  they 
were  quite  simple,  suggesting  none  of 
that  elaboration  and  originality  of  design 
in  which  Knutsford  can  indulge  when 
she  chooses.  But  though  the  rain  could 
bully  her  into  curbing  her  handiwork, 
it  could  not  dampen  her  poetic  ardor. 
194 


LATTER-DAY   CRANFORD 

Across  the  street,  from  one  sandless 
sidewalk  to  the  other,  swept  a  banner, 
and  this  was  the  proud  legend  there- 
of :— 

«  All  hail !     All  hail  thee,  Queen  of  May ! 
For  this  is  our  universal  holiday !  " 

A  melancholy  dryness,  flecked  by 
uncertain  gleams  of  sun,  succeeded  the 
forenoon,  and  we  betook  ourselves,  with 
an  unadulterated  joy,  to  the  Heath, 
where  we  sat,  chilled  and  happy,  on  the 
grand  stand,  watching  the  festival,  and 
reconstructing  the  play-day  of  Old  Eng- 
land from  the  too  sophisticated  pleas- 
ures of  the  New.  This  was  May-day 
decked  out  in  modern  fripperies  for  the 
public  entertainment,  but  it  was  not 
impossible  to  spy,  beneath  its  landings, 
the  simpler  sports  of  a  long-past  time. 
The  procession  was  an  historical  pageant 
of  high  degree.  Here  walked  Sir  Wal- 
ter Raleigh,  Lord  Nelson,  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  Dick  Whittington,  and 
Robin  Hood,  none  of  them  over  four 
feet  high.  Jack-in-the-Green  danced, 
bear -wise,  under  an  inverted  cone  of 
hemlock  ;  the  morris  -  dancers  (lithe, 
bonny  youths,  dressed  in  blue  velvet 
kneebreeches,  white  shirts,  plaid  sashes, 
195 


BY   OAK  AND  THORN 

and  stockings  of  a  vivid  pink  seldom 
seen  outside  a  lozenge  jar)  wove  a  simple 
rhythm  of  movement  entrancing  to  the 
eye,  and  the  May  queen  rode  in  state, 
a  pygmy  lady  of  fashion,  clad  in  white 
satin,  elaborate,  frosty,  like  a  wedding- 
cake.  But  one  would  fain  have  seen 
her  in  simple  white  muslin  enriched 
only  with  posies  of  her  own  plucking, 
gathered  with  the  dew  on  them  while 
even  Corinna  slept.  "Wake  and  call 
me  early,"  that  I  may  hook  myself  into 
a  ball  dress  and  send  for  my  wired 
bouquet !  Some  bathos  comes  with 
time. 

But  of  all  that  winding  throng  one  ob- 
ject alone  had  power  to  thrill  the  mind, 
—  an  old  sedan  chair,  borne  midway  in 
the  procession.  Do  you  remember  it  in 
the  annals  of  Cranford .-'  Within  that 
very  chair  did  Miss  Matty  sit,  tremulous 
but  resolved,  after  the  social  evening  at 
Mrs.  Forrester's,  when  the  dear  ladies 
scared  one  another  into  panic  with  con- 
fession of  the  bogies  most  to  their  mind. 
From  its  unsafe  seclusion  did  she  cry 
aloud  when  the  men  "  stopped  just  where 
Headingley  Causeway  branches  off  from 
Darkness  Lane  :  *  Oh  !  pray  go  on  ! 
196 


LATTER-DAY  CRANFORD 

What  is  the  matter  ?  What  is  the  mat- 
ter ?  I  will  give  you  sixpence  more  to 
go  on  very  fast ;  pray  don't  stop  here.'  " 
Dear  relic  of  a  time  more  real  than  our 
to-day  !  Knutsford  holds  nothing  more 
precious. 

The  Maypole  dance  was  given  over  to 
a  set  of  decorous  little  girls  in  flower-like 
dresses,  green  and  pink.  They  tripped 
it  prettily,  they  braided  and  wove  their 
ribbons  round  the  pole,  but  the  sponta- 
neous joy  of  Old  and  Merrie  England 
was  not  in  them.  A  dancing-master  had 
trained  them  for  the  public  eye.  Step 
and  look  were  no  longer  the  springing 
welcome  to  a  day  when  lads  and  lassies 
should  no  more  be  able  to  hold  their 
fervor  than  trees  their  budding  strength. 
To  watch  these  puppets  tripping  it  was 
to  give  way  for  a  moment  to  sadness,  re- 
flecting that  nowadays  we  are  ashamed 
to  be  merry  after  we  have  come  to  man's 
estate.  We  give  over  our  great  festivals 
to  children,  and  then  sit  looking  on  with 
a  maddening  tickle  in  the  bones  that 
ache  to  join  them. 

With  another  day  Knutsford  had  as- 
sumed her  wonted  air  of  quiescent  deco- 
rum. It  proved  easier  to  see  her  now 
197 


BY  OAK  AND  THORN 

for  what  she  is,  a  Georgian  town  imbued 
with  the  spirit  of  elegance  and  precision ; 
easy,  too,  to  find  Cranford  in  her  every 
look  and  word.  On  that  morning  began 
our  trial  of  local  intelligence  and  belief. 
But  a  step  from  the  Angel  Hotel  (where 
Lord  Mauleverer  very  wisely  took  up  his 
quarters,  though  doubtless  when  it  still 
remained  on  the  other  side  of  the  way) 
stands  the  Royal  George,  once  living 
content  under  its  swinging  sign  of  the 
saint  militant,  but  now  thrown  into  self- 
contradiction  by  the  swelling  adjective 
assumed  after  the  Princess  Victoria  and 
the  Duchess  of  Kent  had  spent  a  night 
under  its  roof,  (An  affectionate  trait  in 
this  loyal  people,  to  weaken'  a  saint's  pat- 
ronymic by  courtly  prefix.)  Now  it  was 
this  same  George  which  was  sought  out 
by  Miss  Pole  on  an  idle  morning,  when 
nothing  more  importunate  prevented  her 
from  strolling  up  the  staircase,  on  benev- 
olence intent.  For,  said  Miss  Pole,  "  my 
Betty  has  a  second-cousin  who  is  cham- 
bermaid there,  and  I  thought  Betty 
would  like  to  hear  how  she  was."  And, 
quite  by  chance,  she  found  herself  in 
the  passage  leading  from  the  inn  to  the 
Assembly  Room,  and  then  in  the  room 
198 


LATTER-DAY  CRANFORD 

itself,  where  Signor  Brunoni  was  mak- 
ing his  preparations  to  juggle  the  wits 
out  of  Cranford  the  very  next  night. 
This  was  the  room  where,  on  that  bewil- 
dering evening,  the  ladies  of  Cranford 
were  so  astounded  by  the  resources  of 
magic  that  they  began  to  debate  whether 
they  had  been  in  the  right  "  to  have  come 
to  see  such  things,"  and  settled  down  to 
an  unalloyed  enjoyment  of  the  evening 
only  on  learning  that  the  "  tall,  thin,  dry, 
rusty  rector,"  insured  against  feminine 
wiles  by  a  cohort  of  National  School 
boys,  sat  "smiling  approval."  Memory 
more  endearing  still,  it  was  the  Assem- 
bly Room  where  Miss  Matty  sighed  a  lit- 
tle over  her  departed  youth,  and  walked 
"  mincingly,  ...  as  if  there  were  a  num- 
ber of  genteel  observers,  instead  of  two 
little  boys  with  a  stick  of  toffy  between 
them  with  which  to  beguile  the  time." 
To  seek  it  out  was  like  dreaming  over  a 
bit  of  dear  Miss  Matty's  shawl  or  a  print 
of  her  turban. 

The  George  is  rich  in  modern  antiqui- 
ties, —  carven  balustrades,  beautiful  old 
clocks,  and  precious  work  in  brass.  It 
is  a  living  example  of  the  actual  mag- 
nificence which  may  be  wrapped  about 
199 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

an  inn  when  it  has  maintained  itself  in 
dignity,  and  conceded  nothing  to  the 
flight  of  time  or  change  of  ownership. 
Something  stately  lies  in  its  hospitable 
repose.  Like  the  ladies  themselves,  it 
clings  resolutely  to  old  possessions, 
though  all  the  world  without  may  clamor 
for  the  changes  falsely  named  improve- 
ment. Owing  to  that  deplorable  lack 
of  understanding  which  is  incident  to 
the  present  of  any  age,  we  were  con- 
ducted, with  flourish  of  pride,  through 
the  George  to  the  new  Assembly  Room, 
aggressively  fresh  against  the  back- 
ground of  Cranford  legends,  and  that 
night  tricked  out  with  masonic  regalia, 
"Is  this  all?"  cried  we,  in  unhappy 
duet.  "  Has  the  old  hall  been  quite 
swept  away }"  By  no  means  !  Did  we. 
wish  to  see  that }  "  A  very  plain  room, 
miss ! "  And  thither  were  we  led,  to 
find  it  shabby,  ancient,  lovable,  —  its 
tinted  walls,  dull  as  a  fading  memory, 
reflecting  to  the  seeing  eye  a  hundred 
scenes  of  innocent  yet  decorous  revelry. 
Here  Miss  Matty  took  her  dainty  steps 
in  the  viemiets  de  la  coiir,  her  young 
head,  crowned  with  its  soft  thick  locks 
(*'  I  had  very  pretty  hair,  my  dear,"  said 


LATTER-DAY   CRANFORD 

Miss  Matilda),  sinking  in  shyness  super- 
added to  decorum  when  young  Holbrook 
came  to  lead  her  to  the  dance.  Here  she 
should  have  worn  the  muslin  from  India 
that  came  to  her  too  late,  poor  Matty. 
Here,  too.  Miss  Pole  gleaned  the  fruitful 
grain  of  gossip,  to  sow  it  carefully  again  ; 
for  in  youth  as  in  age  Miss  Pole  must 
ever  have  been  the  mouthpiece  of  the 
world  which  tattles  and  denies.  Some- 
how I  can  never  connect  Miss  Debo- 
rah with  the  Assembly  Room.  I  fancy 
she  was  but  an  abstracted  figure  at  the 
balls ;  wishing  herself  away  in  a  more 
serious  atmosphere,  dreaming  over  the 
ponderous  delight  of  sitting  at  home 
and  writing  the  charges  of  the  arch- 
deacon she  was  so  eminently  fitted  to 
marry. 

In  the  old  days,  the  George  had  gates 
of  its  own,  but  now  a  free  passage  leads 
under  the  building  (somewhat  in  the 
fashion  of  Clovelly's  wayward  street), 
past  the  stables,  and  up  a  slope,  where, 
directly  facing  the  pedestrian  who  as- 
cends that  way,  stands  a  shop,  pointed 
out  by  universal  acclaim  as  the  one 
where,  after  the  downfall  of  her  for- 
tunes, Miss  Matty  sold  tea  and  scattered 

20I 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

comfits.  It  is  presided  over  by  an  ex- 
cellent chemist,  a  man  of  solemn  aspect 
and  an  unconscious  humor.  A  tradition 
lurks  in  Cranford  that  he  was  once 
sought  out  by  the  Unitarian  clergyman 
of  the  town,  on  the  supposition  that  he 
was  an  adherent  of  that  faith.  The  cru- 
cial question  was  asked. 

"  Oh,  ay,"  responded  master  chemist, 
"  I  am  a  Unitarian.  Indeed,  sir,  I  'm 
almost  an  agnostic  !  "  Rude,  belligerent 
word  to  have  penetrated  the  sacred  pale 
of  Cranford  ! 

We  entered  the  tiny  establishment  on 
some  ostensible  errand. 

"  Is  this  Miss  Matty's  shop  > "  we 
inquired  incidentally,  the  while  our  pur- 
chase was  sought. 

"  Yes,  miss,"  was  the  unhesitating 
answer.  "We  are  repairing  the  back 
room  a  bit,  or  you  could  see  the  little 
window  she  used  to  peep  through  when 
she  heard  a  customer." 

Was  reality  so  wedded  to  fiction  ? 
Actual  windows  and  imaginary  Miss 
Mattys  were  here  in  droll  conjunction. 
Further  questioning  elicited  a  reason 
strangely  alluring  from  the  very  empha- 
sis informing  the  chaos  of  its  terms. 
202 


LATTER-DAY  CRANFORD 

For  it  seems  that  there  was  in  town  an 
aged  gentlewoman,  the  only  existing 
link  between  old  times  and  new,  who 
chanced  to  enter  the  shop  after  the  pa- 
per had  been  torn  away,  disclosing  this 
tiny  window  ;  and  she  from  her  stores 
of  memory  drew  the  assertion  that  this 
was  Miss  Matty's  window,  because  she 
had  seen  it  many  a  time  and  recognized 
it  at  once.  Amorphous  logic  and  fortu- 
nate conclusion ! 

"Now,"  said  we  encouragingly  to  mas- 
ter chemist,  "  of  course  you  know  all  the 
places  mentioned  in  Cranford  ? " 

"  Oh  yes,  miss,"  was  the  cheerful 
reply. 

"  Where  did  the  Honorable  Mrs. 
Jamieson  live  ? " 

He  hesitated.  He  looked  at  us  wildly. 
"Amen  stuck  in  "  his  "throat." 

"Give  me  time  to  think,"  he  rejoined 
appealingly  ;  and,  being  merciful,  we 
gave  it. 

Yet,  returning  that  afternoon,  and  the 
next  day  also,  with  the  query,  "  Have 
you  had  time  to  think .? "  we  were  always 
courteously  but  sadly  answered,  "  No." 

But  authorities  are  not  far  to  seek. 
The  Reverend  George  A.  Payne  knows 
203 


BY   OAK   AND  THORN 

his  literary  Knutsford  as  the  Reverend 
Henry  Green  knew  its  historical  and 
archaeological  aspect,  and  his  guesses 
are  both  satisfying  and  clever.  He  sug- 
gests that  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Jamie- 
son  occupied  a  prosperous-looking  house 
near  the  lower  end  of  the  town,  where 
the  old  Unitarian  Chapel  still  holds  its 
place.  I  am  glad  to  think  so.  It  is  a 
residence  eminently  fitting  for  that  social 
paragon,  and  it  requires  no  impossible 
stretch  of  fancy  to  see  Carlo  lumbering 
about  the  yard,  winking  at  the  ladies 
whom  he  mulcted  of  cream,  or  to  catch 
at  least  a  glimpse  of  majestic  Mr.  Mul- 
liner  reading  the  Saint  James's  Chroni- 
cle, while  the  Cranford  dames  regard 
him  from  without  in  controlled  and  im- 
potent wrath.  Not  far  away,  moreover, 
inclosed  by  high,  invulnerable  walls,  is 
Darkness  Lane,  subject  of  that  ever 
memorable  controversy  on  the  night  of 
the  panic,  when  Miss  Matty  would  fain 
have  had  the  sedan  chair  "go  on  very 
fast,"  and  Miss  Pole  outbid  her  by  six- 
pence and  induced  the  men  to  strike 
into  the  less  ominous  Headingley  Cause- 
way. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  town,  not  far 
204 


LATTER-DAY  CRANFORD 

from  the  gates  of  Tatton  Park,  still 
sleeps  the  old  vicarage,  a  modest  dwell- 
ing in  a  circling  yard,  —  that  yard  where 
poor  Peter  played  his  little  comedy  des- 
tined to  end  in  grief.  Who  does  not 
remember  it,  —  how  Peter  dressed  him- 
self in  Deborah's  gown  and  bonnet,  and 
juggled  a  pillow  into  the  semblance  of 
a  baby  in  long  clothes,  and  how  the  rec- 
tor came  upon  him  as  he  paraded  him- 
self and  his  charge  before  the  gaping 
townsfolk  ?  The  rest  of  the  story  is  too 
sad  for  any  but  sunny  days ;  for  Peter 
was  flogged  and  ran  away  to  sea,  as 
every  one  knows,  while  the  rector  re- 
pented his  angry  vengeance  in  the  ashes 
of  old  age,  and  the  g^itle  house-mother 
died  awaiting  her  boy's  return. 

The  actual  spots  connected  with  Mrs. 
Gaskell's  life  in  Cranford  need  no  broid- 
ery of  fancy.  Looking  over  the  Heath 
stands  the  comfortable,  dignified  house 
where  she  lived  with  Mrs.  Lumb.  Hers 
was  not  an  altogether  untroubled  child- 
hood, suggests  Mrs.  Ritchie,  and  she 
pictures  the  little  girl  running  "  away 
from  her  aunt's  house  across  the 
Heath,"  hiding  "herself  in  one  of  its 
many  green  hollows,  finding  comfort  in 
205 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

the  silence,  and  in  the  company  of  birds 
and  insects  and  natural  things."  At 
that  time,  the  Heath  was  less  of  a 
trodden  village  common  than  to-day, 
more  populous  with  birds,  richer  in  furze 
and  leaf.  But  though  the  identical 
house  has  been  enlarged  and  repaired, 
its  character  of  homelike  comfort  is  un- 
changed. There  are  happy  windows, 
with  great  window  -  seats,  looking  out 
over  the  Heath  and  into  the  garden  at 
the  back.  Sun  and  light  are  every- 
where, and  in  the  garden  beds  lie  the 
richness  and  beauty  of  old-fashioned 
flowers. 

But  of  all  spots  made  to  please  the 
memory  and  stir  it  with  suggestions  not 
to  be  denied  is  Sandlebridge  Farm, 
where  lived  the  Hollands  who  were 
Mrs.  Gaskell's  maternal  ancestors.  An 
agreeable  though  unexciting  walk  leads 
to  it,  between  fields  green  with  the  won- 
derful grass  that  goes  to  the  making  of 
Cheshire  cheese,  and  golden  with  but- 
tercups. Such  far  reaches  of  field  and 
valley  are  here  as  to  make  a  not  unpleas- 
ing  loneliness  in  the  land,  even  under 
full  sunlight ;  and  when,  approaching 
the  farm,  you  come  to  a  smithy  and 
206 


LATTER-DAY  CRANFORD 

mill  dedicated  to  the  uses  of  life,  still 
the  illusion  is  not  dispelled.  For  in  the 
smithy  two  or  three  leisurely  men  lean 
and  look  in  the  intervals  of  smiling  talk, 
and  the  mill,  sweet  and  dusty  from  the 
breath  of  grain,  goes  on  working  quite 
by  itself.  Great  wooden  beams,  heavy 
wheels,  and  dusty  hoppers  seemed,  that 
day,  to  be  living  a  life  of  uncompanioned 
yet  happy  activity,  and  from  without 
came  the  plash,  plash  of  willing  water 
and  the  trickle  of  the  feeding  stream. 
In  the  hazy  distance  loomed  Alderley 
Edge,  a  mammoth  ridge  rising  above 
the  hidden  caverns  where  nine  hundred 
and  ninety  -  nine  horses  stand  "  ever 
caparisoned  and  ready  for  war." 

Mrs.  Gaskell,  when  a  little  girl,  must 
often  have  visited  the  farm  to  play  with 
the  Holland  children ;  but  the  spot  has 
another  distinction,  more  potent  still ; 
for  Sandlebridge  is  Cranford's  Woodley, 
where  Mr.  Thomas  Holbrook  lived,  and 
read  "  my  Lord  Byrron,"  and  ate  his 
peas  happily  without  the  aid  of  a  fork, 
and  where  Miss  Matty  came  to  him  too 
late.  The  great  stone  balls  are  gone 
from  the  pillars  beside  the  gate  (the 
great  Lord  CUve  used  to  jump  from  one 
207 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

to  the  other,  when  he  was  a  schoolboy 
at  Knutsford),  and  the  ancient  deco- 
rum of  the  manor  has  subsided  into  the 
well-being  of  a  prosperous  farm  ;  but  the 
spot  is  full  of  a  slumberous  peace.  We 
were  entertained  in  the  stone -flagged 
kitchen,  with  its  dresser  of  blue  dishes 
on  the  wall  and  its  flitches  of  bacon 
hanging  from  the  hooks  above,  and  we 
drank  our  milk  and  ate  the  sweet  farm 
bread  with  a  drowsy  sense  that  some- 
how dear  Miss  Matty  was  with  us,  and 
perhaps  the  sonsy  Mary  who  tells  the 
tale.  Do  you  remember  how  Mary 
walked  about  the  garden  with  that  an- 
tique lover  who  loved  no  more,  listen- 
ing to  his  comments  on  flower  and  leaf ; 
and  how  she  afterwards  went  with  him 
to  the  fields,  where  he  forgot  her  and 
strode  on  to  the  measure  of  his  dearest 
rhymes  .••  No  beauty  of  the  growing 
world  had  lain  afar  from  his  full  and 
lonely  life.  With  us,  too,  did  he  walk 
that  day.  The  sweet  -  smelling  plants 
were  such  as  his  eye  must  have  cher- 
ished ;  the  cropping  cattle  over  the 
happy  slopes  were  of  one  family  with 
those  he  had  fostered  ;  and  the  trees, 
black-branched  and  glossy  in  their  green- 
208 


LATTER-DAY   CRANFORD 

ness,  had  made  the  tutelary  deities  of 
his  land.  It  is  not  easy  to  tell  how 
peacefully  these  fields  and  meadows 
slept  under  the  warm  sky,  nor  how  lav- 
ishly they  promised  response  to  loving 
tillage. 

Slight  hints,  garrulous  suggestions, 
are  constantly  appealing  to  one  in  Knuts- 
ford,  not  as  literal  duplicates  of  Cranford 
customs,  but  as  links  in  an  affectionate 
chain  of  inference.  Fiction  is  not  por- 
traiture, but  it  may  easily  become  a 
record  of  those  fleeting  impressions 
which  make  an  intrinsic  part  of  the 
mental  tissue.  Names  familiar  to  a 
writer's  youth  have  a  way  of  creeping 
into  her  work,  —  nooks  and  corners, 
remarkable  for  no  story  of  their  own, 
crop  up  again  when  her  dreams  demand 
actual  habitat.  In  reading  the  history 
of  Cheshire,  it  is  curious  to  note  the 
number  of  Peters  of  eminent  memory, 
and  more  curious  still  to  stumble  on  the 
name  in  the  yard  of  Knutsford  parish 
church.  It  was  not  only  of  good  repute, 
but  very  commonly  used.  Cranford,  too, 
has  adopted  it ;  for  did  not  the  local 
grandee  of  Turveydropsical  memory  fig- 
ure as  Sir  Peter  Arley,  and  was  not 
209 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

the  rector's  erring  Peter  named  for  him  ? 
And  let  it  be  said  incidentally  that  no 
one  who  visits  that  churchyard  should 
omit  reading  the  epitaph  of  the  Rever- 
end John  Swinton,  of  Nether  Knutsford  ; 
for  it  must  assuredly  have  been  written 
by  Miss  Deborah  herself,  under  direct 
inspiration  from  the  ever  admirable  Doc- 
tor Johnson.     Thus  it  runs  :  — 

"He  was  happy  in  an  excellent  natu- 
ral Genius,  improv'd  with  every  Branch 
of  polite  and  useful  Learning.  His  Com- 
positions were  correct,  elegant,  nervous, 
edifying,  and  deliver' d  with  peculiar 
Force  and  Dignity.  His  Conversation 
was  courteous,  entertaining,  instructive, 
and  animated  with  a  striking  Vivacity  of 
Spirit.  As  a  Husband  a  Friend  and  a 
Neighbor  He  was  affectionate,  faithful, 
benevolent,  A  zealous  Assertor  and  an 
able  Defender  of  religious  and  civil  lib- 
erty. With  Talents  which  would  have 
adorn'd  the  highest  Station  in  the 
Church  For  reasons  to  himself  unan- 
swerable He  declin'd  repeated  Offers  of 
Preferment  from  his  Friends  many  Years 
before  his  Death.  He  bore  his  last 
Affliction  with  a  Firmness  and  Forti- 
tude truly  Christian  and  died  lamented 


LATTER-DAY   CRANFORD 

by  the  Wise,  the  Learned  and  the  Good 
Dec.  lo"'  1764,  in  the  70'^  Year  of  his 
Age." 

Surely  six-footed  eulogy  can  no  fur- 
ther go ! 

Another  suggestion  of  Cranford  lies  in 
the  fact  that  an  actual  Arley  Hall  exists 
to  this  day,  the  seat  of  the  Warburtons, 
within  easy  driving  distance  of  Knuts- 
ford.  Mrs.  Gaskell  aimed  at  no  need- 
less portraiture  or  exact  topography ;  but 
names  doubtless  got  into  her  mind,  and 
lived  there,  like  an  old  song,  till  memory 
shook  them  forth.  The  Cranford  scare, 
moreover,  when  an  hysteria  of  panic  pre- 
vailed, and  blew  prudence  out  of  the 
ladies'  heads  while  it  coaxed  some  gob- 
lin in,  —  what  was  that  but  a  refluent 
wave  of  Mrs.  Gaskell's  possible  shrink- 
ing when,  a  child,  she  heard  the  com- 
mon reminiscences  of  the  highwayman 
Higgins  ?  This  was  the  Duval  of  Knuts- 
ford,  who  lived  at  the  Cann  House  on 
the  Heathside  (neighbor  to  Mrs.  Lumb), 
and  who  made  nothing  of  flying  over  the 
roads  to  commit  a  murder  at  Bristol  and 
returning  again,  within  forty-eight  hours, 
to  prove  his  alibi.  It  was  Higgins  who, 
living  the  jolly  life  of  a  prosperous  gen- 
211 


BY  OAK  AND   THORN 

tleman,  one  night  left  the  ball  (held,  no 
doubt,  in  the  old  Assembly  Room)  to  lie 
in  wait  for  Lady  Warburton  and  reap 
her  jewels.  But  the  lady's  keen  sight 
and  innocence  of  mind  proved  her  sal- 
vation ;  for,  putting  her  head  out  of  the 
carriage  as  the  robber  approached,  she 
called  serenely,  "  Good-night,  Mr.  Hig- 
gins  !  Why  did  you  leave  the  ball  so 
early  ?  "  And  Higgins,  thus  thrust  back 
into  his  r61e  of  country  gentleman,  rode 
on  discomfited.  He  was  executed  at 
Caermarthen  in  1767,  only  forty-three 
years  before  Mrs.  Gaskell  was  bom. 
This  was  not  too  long  a  period  for  tra- 
dition to  linger,  painting  him  ever  more 
gloomily,  until  he  loomed  large,  like  Guy 
of  Warwick  or  Thor  the  Thunderer. 
What  affrighting  falsities  might  have 
garlanded  his  name  in  Knutsford  similar 
legends  all  the  world  over  may  attest. 
Did  the  sensitive  little  child,  playing 
in  corners,  overhear  the  Cranford  ladies 
relating  his  bold,  bad  deeds,  and  trick- 
ing them  out  with  bewildering  details  of 
their  own  device  }  Did  the  child  her- 
self tremble  at  the  spectre  of  Darkness 
Lane  huddling  under  the  mantle  of  a 
pitchy  night  .<•     Such  emotions  are  the 


LATTER-DAY  CRANFORD 

willow  twigs  of  memory  ;  swept  down  a 
living  stream,  they  are  bound  to  reach 
roothold,  and  there  bud  greenly  in  the 
vesture  of  the  vernal  year. 

One  curiously  suggestive  incident  be- 
longs to  Mrs.  Gaskell's  own  life,  though 
to  dwell  on  it  too  definitely  might  serve 
merely  to  establish  a  false  bond  between 
the  concrete  and  the  ideal.  Her  only 
brother,  a  lieutenant  in  the  merchant 
service,  disappeared  on  his  third  or  fourth 
voyage,  about  the  year  1827,  and  "  never 
was  heard  of  more."  Might  such  linger- 
ing tragedy  have  been  the  secret  of  her 
pathos  over  the  heartbreak  and  sickness 
bckrn  of  Peter's  absence  .-'  Did  she  know 
by  too  near  experience  what  it  is  to  listen 
for  the  footstep  that  never  falls  ?  But 
one  last  proof  clinches  the  argument  that 
Knutsford  is  Cranford,  though  "some 
volke  miscalle  it."  Turn  to  the  annals  of 
Cranford,  and  you  shall  read  of  a  certain 
old  lady  who  had  "an  Alderney  cow, 
which  she  looked  upon  as  a  daughter." 
Now,  this  cherished  animal,  falling  into 
a  lime  pit,  was  denuded  of  all  her  hair, 
and  her  adoptive  mother,  being  ironi- 
cally recommended  to  "get  her  a  flan- 
nel waistcoat  and  flannel  drawers,"  did 
213 


BY  OAK  AND   THORN 

indeed  send  her  thenceforth  to  pasture 
soberly  clad  in  gray. 

Return  now  to  the  chronicles  of  con- 
crete Knutsford,  and  listen  to  the  Rever- 
end Henry  Green,  who,  in  spite  of  this 
one  concession,  never  believed  in  any  in- 
tentional literary  apotheosis  of  his  cher- 
ished town  :  — 

"  A  woman  of  advanced  age,  who  was 
confined  to  her  house  through  illness, 
.  .  .  asked  me  to  lend  her  an  amusing 
or  cheerful  book.  I  lent  her  Cranford, 
without  telling  her  to  what  it  was  sup- 
posed to  relate.  She  read  the  tale  of 
Life  in  a  Country  Town,  and  when  I 
called  again,  she  was  full  of  eagerness 
to  say,  'Why,  sir,  that  Cranford  is  all 
about  Knutsford  !  My  old  mistress,  Miss 
Harker,  is  mentioned  in  it  ;  and  our  poor 
cow,  she  did  go  to  the  field  in  a  large 
flannel  waistcoat  because  she  had  burned 
herself  in  a  lime  pit ! '" 
214 


UNDER    THE    GREAT    BLUE  TENT 

Betake  yourself,  in  these  new  days, 
to  Omar  Khayyam ;  and  what  he  smgs 
of  the  fleeting  joys  of  life  and  the  con- 
soling grape,  say  you  of  summer.  For 
the  long  hours  will  weave  themselves 
into  ropes  of  sand  you  may  not  hold, 
and  the  brown  leaf-stems  loosen  on  the 
trees ;  the  earth  will  by-and-by  lock  up 
her  treasure-box,  now  jealously  opened, 
and  you  must  shrink  back  into  winter 
hiding,  owning  that  the  feast  was  spread 
and  you  kept  a  foolish  fast,  that  summer 
stayed  at  your  hand  and  you  craved  no 
guerdon.  Throw  aside  therefore  the 
fevered  craving  to  read  books  and  to 
rouse  the  world's  wonder  over  your 
haste.  Set  the  mind  only  upon  flowing 
water  and  bountiful  trees,  and  that  in 
jio  studious  mood,  but  the  warm  languor 
of  a  midday  dream.  And  note  well 
that  an  upland  pasture  is  good  hunting 
for  the  soul,  and  so  also  is  the  moving 
sea  ;  but  you  shall  mar  the  spell  of  their 
spirit  upon  you  if  you  creep  under  roofs 

215 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

by  night.  For  that  is  a  sickly  fashion, 
born  of  fear  and  a  crowded  life ;  and  it 
constrains  the  soul.  Form  a  happy  com- 
pany of  such  as  love  the  earth,  and  set 
up  your  tents  by  sea  or  lake,  or  even  on 
the  hilly  pasture  slopes  at  home.  And 
this  adoption  of  the  outer  world  shall 
make  a  reason,  not  for  carousing  and  re- 
enacting  the  sports  of  winter,  to  offend 
the  face  of  heaven,  but  it  shall  serve  as 
withdrawal  into  the  sanctuary  of  true 
repose.  There  shall  be  long  hours  spent 
"  in  a  green  shade  ; "  still,  serene  float- 
ing on  the  lake,  while  the  sunset  bums 
to  gold,  and  deep  dream-locked  sleep 
under  canvas  or  in  the  open  air.  I 
would  not  forbid  you  to  read  Stevenson 
and  Lanier,  but  the  modern  novel  shall 
be  held  afar  from  your  rest.  Your  mus- 
cles shall  ache  with  tramping  and  the 
oars  ;  you  shall  be  bruised  from  stum- 
bling through  the  forest  when  you  steal 
out  by  night  to  feel  the  dark  among  the 
pines  ;  you  shall  find  the  simplest  fare 
ambrosial;  and  you  shall  be  called  to 
life,  every  morning,  by  a  chiming  chorus 
and  the  hoarse  logic  of  the  legislating 
crows,  and  wake  to  see,  oh,  matchless 
wonder !  the  ferns  and  raspberry  vines 
216 


UNDER  THE   GREAT   BLUE  TENT 

breathing  outside  your  tent  and  painting 
the  shadow  of  their  trembling  on  the 
sunHt  walls.  Easy  is  it  in  England  to 
suffer  a  summer  change  into  vagrom 
ways,  tramping  the  blossomy  lanes,  eat- 
ing under  hedges,  and  begging  the  kindly 
carrier  for  a  lift  in  his  van  ;  and  even  in 
America  two  women,  comrades  pledged, 
may  forswear  roofs  and  walk  abroad  with 
staff  and  scrip,  or  even  set  up  their  tent 
in  a  huckleberry  pasture,  near  some 
farmer,  lord  of  New  England  soil.  None 
so  necessary  as  he ;  for  he  shall  be  the 
purveyor  to  their  comfort,  and  give  them 
milk  and  eggs  for  the  dirty  bills  born 
of  winter's  drudgery,  and  turned  now  to 
something  worthy  through  righteous  use. 
The  camper,  to  civilized  minds,  enter- 
tains a  bee  in  her  bonnet,  in  that  she 
loves  her  dripping  house  by  the  wood 
better  than  timbered  roofs,  though  Solo- 
mon had  raised  them.  Her  bee  drones 
happily,  and  all  the  little  world  hears  it ; 
but  its  very  presence  invests  her  with  a 
certain  sacredness,  like  that  of  madmen 
in  days  of  old,  and  the  farmer-folk  are 
her  leal  protectors  from  hunger  and  the 
world.  These  be  the  tamer  ways  of 
camping,  and  pleasant  withal ;  but  if 
217 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

four  or  more  strong  spirits  can  betake 
them  to  the  deeper  wood  where  even 
the  sound  of  mowing  and  garnering  in- 
vade not,  and  make  their  summer  home 
by  lake  or  stream,  they  shall  seize  hold 
of  the  garment  of  their  youth  even 
though  she  were  vanishing  away.  They 
shall  work  hard,  and  love  it.  They  shall 
cut  a  path  to  the  strip  of  beach  where 
the  water  is  clear  over  sand  and  beguil- 
ing to  the  bather  ;  they  shall  row  miles 
for  the  potatoes  for  to-morrow's  dinner, 
and  tug  mightily  to  pile  up  the  sticks 
for  next  day's  fire.  Fighting  thus  the 
old  battle  over  again,  warring  to  fill  the 
simpler  needs  of  life  at  first  hand,  is 
to  return  with  gladness  to  our  great 
Mother,  and  cling  about  her  knees.  The 
ancient  struggle  for  life  shall  be  enacted 
in  little  on  their  sunny  stage  ;  and  they 
shall  see  the  earth  more  clearly,  as 
through  the  eyes  of  old,  and  think,  too, 
on  the  stars,  nearer  now  in  that  they 
brood  and  smile.  Certain  pitiful  falla- 
cies shall  be  unlearned  through  the 
lessoning  of  camp.  The  wise  pupil, 
stultified  by  civilized  theory,  finds  with 
amazement  that  no  more  secure  and 
solemn  retreat  exists  than  the  forest 
218 


UNDER  THE  GREAT   BLUE   TENT 

path  at  night,  and  that  darkness  is  as 
little  to  be  feared  as  her  own  cloak. 
She  grows  into  the  acquiescence  of  ani- 
mals under  a  summer  rain  ;  nay,  even  to 
joy  therein,  and  gains  an  added  lightness 
when  the' sun  breaks  forth.  A  pillow  is 
no  longer  the  mainstay  of  sleep,  and  she 
dozes  excellent  well  on  a  bed  of  pine 
needles  with  an  arm  tucked  under  her 
head.  And,  oh,  the  feasting  of  the  eye  ! 
line  upon  line  of  trembling  branches, 
enthralling  shadows  of  leaf  on  sunlit 
leaf !  The  remembrance  of  it,  to  one 
who  has  had  that  rich  surfeit,  is  like  a 
song  in  the  heart.  Perhaps  that  is  what 
the  thrush  sings  in  forest  aisles,  when 
twilight  falls  :  the  shapes  of  things,  the 
form  and  color,  all  the  glorified  remem- 
brance of  his  golden  day.  Who  shall  say 
no  ?  For  after  all,  what  but  a  thrush's 
song  could  trace  upon  the  mind's  fine 
tablet  the  outline  of  a  leaf  ? 

This  it  is  to  be  fortunate  at  home ; 
but  he  who  crosses  the  sea  earns  a 
double  blessing  :  and  if  he  go  to  tramp, 
to  gypsy,  he  has  found  out  what  it  is 
to  gather  up  the  gold  of  the  year  and 
garner  it  away  for  winter  spending.  To 
walk  is  truly  to  live.  When  the  morning 
219 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

shines  before  you  and  with  it  a  broad 
highway,  stretching  straight  into  bliss, 
you  may  throw  up  your  heels  at  fate. 
But  there  are  roads  and  roads ;  some  of 
them  lie  in  the  mind  forever,  in  lines  of 
light.  One  such  is  the  way  out  of  Bre- 
con to  Llansaintfraed,  where  the  bones 
of  Henry  Vaughan  have  long  been  cry- 
ing from  a  neglected  grave  :  another  is 
the  Roman  road  out  of  good  Shrewsbury, 
and  a  third  the  broad  highway  where- 
by, after  Monmouth,  you  go  on  to  the 
beauties  of  Tintern  and  the  Severn  Sea. 
There  they  wait  for  you,  conscientious  in 
milestones,  relics  of  a  conquering  past, 
and  some  of  them  beguilingly  setting 
forth  the  number  of  miles  from  London; 
thereby,  no  matter  what  your  loyalty  to 
green  fields  and  beneficent  sky,  drawing 
the  heart  out  of  your  breast  with  long- 
ing. Your  only  companioning  there 
shall  be  the  infrequent  farmer's  wain, 
the  wandering  tinker  and  the  unmistak- 
able genus  tramp,  sometimes  pursuing 
his  slouching  way,  but  oftener  asleep  on 
his  face  under  a  hedge.  But  fear  him 
not.  He  is  our  cousin,  and  the  comrade- 
ship of  wandering  is  strong  between  us. 
You  shall  learn  strange  things  of  the 
220 


UNDER  THE  GREAT  BLUE  TENT 

English  churl  and  what  serves  him  for 
mind,  while  you  invade  his  roads  and 
valleys.  It  will  not  be  long  before  you 
formulate  the  axiom  that  he  knows  not 
one  hand  from  t'  other ;  for  when  he 
sends  you  to  the  right,  it  is  well  estab- 
lished out  of  the  mouths  of  many  wit- 
nesses that  he  honestly  means  the  left. 
You  must  never  ask  him  a  question  on  a 
sudden,  for  haste  addles  his  wits,  and  he 
will  swear  he  knows  not  Joseph.  Two 
of  us,  one  day,  after  manifold  disappoint- 
ments in  such  queries,  which  served  only 
to  lock  up  the  knowledge  indubitably 
there,  arranged  a  set  of  questions  which 
might  have  proved  of  unfailing  excel- 
lence had  time  and  the  hour  given  a 
margin  for  their  use.  For  instead  of 
the  crass  query,  "  Can  you  tell  me  the 
way  to  Babine."*"  we  would  invent  a 
cunning  preamble,  thus  :  "  Good  morn- 
ing, goodman.  A  fine  day !  It  is  very 
pleasant  walking.  We  hope  to  get  on  to 
the  next  village.  We  do  not  know  it 
by  name.  We  think  it  may  be  Babine. 
Pray  you,  what  is  the  name  of  the  next 
village  .''  "  Thus  delicately  jogged.  Mas- 
ter Shepherd's  wits  might  of  themselves 
leave  their  wool-gathering,  and  he  would 

221 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

send  us  on  equipped.  But  jarred  too 
rudely,  denial  seems  his  only  refuge. 

"Is  this  Tretower.-*  "  I  asked  a  rustic 
one  day  when  that  heaven  lay  palpably 
before  us. 

"  No,  miss,"  he  responded. 

"  Is  n't  that  Tretower  ? " 

"No,  miss." 

I  turned  away,  adrift,  but  with  one  last 
impulse  varied  the  phrase. 

"  What  is  that  village  ? " 

"Tretower."     He  had  recovered. 

And  when  such  are  awakened  to  the 
point  of  directing  you,  they  do  it  by  a 
system  calculated  to  induce  madness  in 
the  natural  mind. 

"  You  see  that  church  ? "  begins  your 
informant. 

"Yes."  Naturally  you  make  a  mental 
note  of  the  church. 

"  Well,  £^0  you  by  that.  You  see  that 
woman  walking } " 

"  Yes."  You  speak  hastily,  for  mean- 
time she  is  in  motion.  You  begin  to 
see  what  life  must  have  been  for  Alice, 
playing  croquet  when  the  wickets  would 
walk  about  the  ground. 

"  There  the  road  turns.  But  go 
straight   on.      Yours   will   be   the   next 


UNDER  THE  GREAT  BLUE  TENT 

one."  And  so  by  indirection,  a  certain 
negative  process,  you  learn  what  you 
must  not  do,  and  come,  by  slow  and 
painful  steps,  to  what  you  may. 

"  Turn  up  on  your  right  hand  at  the 
next  turning,  but  at  the  next  turning  of 
all,  on  your  left ;  marry,  at  the  very  next 
turning,  turn  of  no  hand,  but  turn  down 
indirectly  to  the  Jew's  house." 

Here  have  we  historic  precedent. 

And  ever,  having  finished  some  com- 
plicated direction,  they  conclude  in  tri- 
umph :  "  You  carn't  miss  it ! "  To  some 
of  us  who  have  missed  it  many  times, 
even  while  the  echo  of  that  prophecy 
died  upon  the  air,  it  is  a  terrifying 
phrase.  I  have  grown  to  consider  it 
the  equivalent  of  the  evil  eye. 

The  good  walker  eats  lightly  in  the 
middle  of  the  day.  Save  at  happy 
moments  of  active  good  fellowship,  he 
talks  little.  His  feet  settle  into  the 
rhythm  of  the  road,  and  his  mind  re- 
poses on  the  happy  continuance  of  meas- 
ured effort.  He  never  thinks.  He  is 
conscious  only  of  ecstatic  being,  or  the 
richer  state  of  an  acquiescent  content. 
He  has  learned  what  it  must  be  to  fly 
like  the  pigeon,  to  live  under  water,  to 
223 


BY   OAK   AND   THORN 

take  root  in  the  earth  and  grow.  How 
effortless  Hfe  may  become  they  only 
know  who  have  tasted  the  joys  of  the 
road.  Here  are  pretty  paradoxes.  The 
feel  of  the  pack  is  no  burden,  but  an 
added  gift ;  but  so,  too,  is  the  freedom 
of  casting  it  aside  for  the  noonday  rest. 
One  loses  respect  for  clothes  in  the 
main,  yet  conceives  a  tender  liking  for 
some  benignant  article  like  a  pair  of 
ragged  gaiters,  a  dress  too  impossible 
to  be  spoiled,  or  an  old  hat  gloriously 
adorned  with  a  mad  -  cap  pheasant's 
feather,  found  by  the  way.  The  track 
is  diversified  like  life  itself.  In  one 
summer  you  may  learn  what  it  is  to 
tread  the  highway,  to  flee  over  Egdon 
Heath,  pursued  by  thunder-clouds  and 
Dorset  tragedies,  to  lose  breath  in  the 
hot  fragrance  of  Devon  lanes,  to  tramp, 
knee-deep  in  heather,  over  the  Exmoor 
hills,  or  scour  Salisbury  Plain,  thyme- 
scented,  loud  with  larks. 

What  the  byways  of  wandering  may 
be  only  he  can  guess  who  searches  in 
the  corners  of  his  mind  for  rich  treasure- 
trove  cast  in  there  on  fortunate  days. 
Certain  walks  of  our  own  lay  placidly 
along  canals,  —  Brecon,  Llantisilio,  or 
224 


UNDER  THE  GREAT   BLUE  TENT 

even  the  water  way  to  Iffley  along  the 
Thames.  There  was  one  upward  range, 
on  Haughmond  Abbey  day,  when  we 
came  on  great  patches  of  brilliant 
sward,  under  black-boled  beeches,  mak- 
ing their  own  green  shade.  Still  above 
lay  drifts  of  wild  hyacinth,  "  like  blue 
peat  smoke  against  the  sky."  We 
remember  lengths  of  Welsh  road,  again 
azured  by  hyacinths  and  cool  yellow 
with  primroses,  where  the  clearest  of 
streams  run  swiftly,  so  that  you  seem 
to  be  moving  in  their  good  company; 
and  you  dip  your  dusty  feet  therein  for 
comfort  and  for  benison.  Sometimes 
entertainment  falls  richly  on  you  expect- 
ing nothing ;  at  a  mansion  torn  by  Par- 
liamentary cannon-balls,  or  a  farmhouse 
like  one  near  the  Battlefield  of  Shrews- 
bury, where  nature's  gentleman  gave 
two  of  us  to  drink  of  milk  foaming  in 
newness,  and  then  led  us  in  to  see  his 
carven  mantels  and  wainscoting  that 
were  old  when  the  Lords  of  the  Marches 
kept  their  state. 

The  world  and  the  glory  thereof  are 
yours,  and  every  night  you  swing  into 
town  or  hamlet,  eat  dreamily  but  with 
mighty  appetite,  and  betake  yourself  to 

225 


BY   OAK  AND   THORN 

sleep,  wherein  you  seem  to  be  walking, 
still  walking.  For  the  muscles  them- 
selves retain  the  rhythm  of  motion,  the 
while  they  rest.  The  best  legacy  of  all 
is  perennial,  even  after  the  prisoning 
walls  have  shut  you  in  again.  Some- 
times at  night  you  see,  beneath  closed 
eyelids,  two  silent  figures  swinging  along 
on  a  summer  road.  These  are  you  and 
your  good  comrade,  though  indeed  they 
do  not  seem  to  be  you  at  all,  but  two 
far  more  happy  than  imagination  could 
guess.  They  are  walking,  always  walk- 
ing, and  the  sun  shines  and  speedwell 
thrives  under  the  hedge ;  they  smile  as 
they  go.  Sometimes,  in  a  foolish  play, 
they  divert  themselves  hours  long  by 
snapping  the  bags  of  bladder-campion, 
ambitious  only  in  that  rivalry.  They 
are  children,  rich  in  their  changing  foot- 
hold of  earth  and  mothered  by  the  sky. 
They  are  not  you :  yet  the  sight  of 
them  brims  over  with  peace  and  prom- 
ise, and  you  go  smiling  away  to  sleep. 
226 


Date  Due 

^ 

UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  facility 


llillii 


A     000  657  304     2 


DA625 


B7 


t)A62^ 


B7 


Brown,  Alice. 


By  oak  and  thorn • 


DATE  DUE 


BORROWER'S   NAME 


Brown,  Alice, 

By  oak  and  thorn. 


